


It's A Wonderful Life

by kjack89



Category: It's a Wonderful Life (1946), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angels, Christmas, Developing Relationship, Great Depression, Guardian Angels, It's A Wonderful Life AU, M/M, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:59:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's A Wonderful Life AU. Enjolras has dreamed of going out and changing the world since he was a boy, but circumstances have kept him stuck in Bedford Falls. As Enjolras struggles with wanting to do some good in the world even from his small town, the situation turns desperate, and he contemplates another way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I love Christmas, and for me, Christmas means watching It's a Wonderful Life. And then I wanted to cast Enjolras as George Bailey and see where that took me. And it took me, well, here.
> 
> Because the first few chapters set up the plot and characters, they stay pretty close to the film in terms of dialogue, but later sections will deviate more. Though nominally set during the same time frame as It's a Wonderful Life (roughly 1930s and 40s, for the most part), I have chosen not to confront issues of homophobia and other such prejudices occurring during this time period, simply because it's not the point of this story. I do not mean for this in any way to demean the struggles of the individuals in this time period who would have struggled with these issues.
> 
> Other than that, my usual disclaimer applies: I own nothing but my typos.
> 
> Enjoy, and Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

“ _I owe everything to Enjolras Lamarque. Help him, dear Father_.”

“ _Joseph and all the angels. Help my friend Enjolras_.”

“ _Help my son Enjolras tonight_.”

“ _He never thinks about himself, God; that’s why he’s in trouble_.”

“ _Enjolras is a good guy. Give him a break, God_.”

“ _I love him, dear Lord. Watch over him tonight_.”

“ _Please, God. Something’s the matter with Daddy_.”

“ _Please bring Daddy back_.”

All through the quiet little town of Bedford Falls, variations on the same prayer were repeated over and over, rising en masse with the same plea: someone needed to help Enjolras Lamarque. An angel named Franklin asked Joseph in a troubled voice, “Is something the matter?”

“Looks like we’ll have to send someone down,” Joseph told him, sounding as serious as the prayers that had come their way. “A lot of people are asking for help for a man named Enjolras Lamarque.”

Franklin instantly recognized the name. “Enjolras Lamarque. Yes, tonight’s his crucial night. We’ll have to send someone down immediately. Whose turn is it?”

Sighing heavily, Joseph informed Franklin, “That’s why I came to see you, sir. It’s Monseigneur Bienvenu’s turn.”

Franklin chuckled slightly. “Oh, you mean Myriel. Hasn’t gotten his wings yet, has he?”

Joseph said darkly, “That’s because he can get a bit intense, sir. Even for an angel.”

“As intense as he may be, he has the most important thing of all – faith. Joseph, send for Myriel.”

As quickly as he could, Myriel joined them, his voice excited as he asked, “You sent for me, sir?”

Franklin told him seriously, “Yes, Myriel. A man down on Earth needs our help.”

Without even a second’s hesitation, Myriel said, “Splendid! Is he sick?”

Sighing, Franklin took a brief moment to compose himself before telling him sternly, “No, worse. He’s discouraged. At exactly ten forty-five PM tonight, Earth time, that man will be thinking seriously of throwing away the greatest gift of all.”

“Oh, dear,” Myriel said, his tone also turning serious as he realized what Franklin was implying. “His life? Then I’ve only got an hour to dress. What are they wearing now?”

“You’ll spend that hour getting acquainted with Enjolras Lamarque,” Franklin said firmly, leaving no room for any argument.

Still, Myriel asked cautiously, “Sir, if I should accomplish this mission – I mean…might I perhaps win my wings? I’ve been waiting for over one hundred years now, sir, and people  _are_  beginning to talk.”

Something in Franklin’s tone softened as he asked Myriel, “What’s that book that you’ve got there?”

“ _Les Misérables_ ,” Myriel told him, though his tone was still cautious.

Franklin told him gently, “Myriel, you do a good job with Enjolras Lamarque, and you’ll get your wings.”

Myriel sighed, relieved. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.”

Joseph cleared his throat to draw Myriel’s attention back to the problem at hand. “Poor Enjolras…Sit down, Myriel.”

“Sit down?” Myriel asked. “What are—?”

Joseph’s voice was tinged with impatience as he asked Myriel, “If you’re going to help a man, you want to know something about him, don’t you? Well, keep your eyes open. See the town?”

Slowly, the town of Bedford Falls materialized before them, bringing into focus a snow-covered hill on the outskirts of town. A group of young boys were laughing and playing on top of the hill, shoving each other into the snow and taking turns sliding down the hill on large snow shovels. One of them, a blond-haired boy wearing a bright red winter coat, took his turn sliding down the hill on his shovel and on to the iced-over pond, whooping as he did so.

(“Who’s that?” Myriel asked.

Joseph chuckled. “That’s your problem, Enjolras Lamarque.”

“A boy?”

Myriel’s tone was surprised, and Joseph told him, “That’s him when he was twelve. Something happens here that you’ll have to remember later on.”)

Several other boys slid down after him, and Enjolras cheered and applauded for each one. When one of the other boys was getting ready to slide down the hill, Enjolras called from the bottom, laughing as he did, “And here comes the scaredy-cat, my kid brother, Marius Pontmercy!”

“I’m not scared!” Marius called back, though he eyed the bottom of the hill uneasily. “And I’m not your kid brother.”

One of Enjolras’s friends, Courfeyrac, laughed and slung an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “He’s a chip off the old block, isn’t he?” he said cheerfully. “Even if he is only your adopted brother. Heehaw!”

Enjolras laughed as well, yelling at Marius, “Adopted or not, you’re still younger than me, you boob!”

Marius scowled but couldn’t think of anything to say in response, and all of the boys shouted encouragement as Marius slid down the hill. He picked up even more speed than any other of the boys, and slid further than them on the ice, sliding all the way on to the thin ice at the edge of the pond. The weight from the shovel was too much, and the ice broke, plunging Marius into the water.

Enjolras froze for only a second before springing into action, racing after Marius, shouting as he did, “I’m coming, Marius!”

The other boys ran after him, but Enjolras got there first, jumping into the water without hesitation and grabbing Marius, heaving him towards the solid edge. “Help me with him!” he called. “Form a chain, guys!”

The other boys scrambled to help, lying flat against the ice to help pull Marius and then Enjolras out of the frigid water.

(“Enjolras saved Marius’s life that day,” Joseph told Myriel, “but he caught a bad cold, which infected his left ear and cost him his hearing in that ear. It was weeks before he could return to his after-school job at old man Mabeuf’s drugstore.”)

The same group of boys walked down the street, laughing and shoving each other playfully. They were about to cross the street when a carriage rolled past, an elderly, sour-looking man sitting inside, glaring out at them. Enjolras glared right back, his lip curling. “Mr. Philippe,” Enjolras spat.

(“Who’s that – a king?” Myriel asked.

“That’s Mr. Louis Philippe, the richest and meanest man in the county,” Joseph told Myriel. “Now watch. This is important.”)

Once the boys had reached Mabeuf’s drugstore, they pushed Enjolras inside, and Bahorel called, “Go to work, slave!” as Courfeyrac gave his usual, “Heehaw!”

Enjolras just shook his head and waved them off, shouting over his shoulder, “So long!” When he got inside the store, he went instantly to the old-fashioned cigar lighter sitting on the counter and grabbed the lighter in one hand, closing his eyes as he wished fervently, “I wish I had a million dollars!” He clicked the lighter and when the flame shot up, he said cheerfully, “Hot dog!”

Running a hand through his blond curls, Enjolras crossed behind the counter, pulling his apron on, barely paying any attention to the dark-haired boy sitting at the counter and looking at Enjolras as if he was the only person in the entire world who mattered.

“It’s me, Mr. Mabeuf!” Enjolras called into the backroom, where Mabeuf was working. “Enjolras Lamarque.”

Mabeuf looked out from the back room. His eyes were red and suspiciously wet, and he was clenching a bottle in his hand, which he took a long pull from before growling at Enjolras, “You’re late.”

Enjolras gave Mabeuf an odd look, but just said quietly, “Yes, sir.”

The door to the drugstore jangled open, and another boy, this one also dark-haired, though his hair was straight and fashionably styled, strode in. He gave Enjolras a wide smile as he sat down on one of the stools. “Hello, Enjolras,” he said, almost breathily, though the smile faded when he looked over at the other boy, and it was with a sniff that he said, “Hello, Grantaire.”

The dark-haired boy, Grantaire, stared back at him flatly. “Hello, Montparnasse.”

Enjolras paid little mind to whatever silent tussle was going on between the two younger boys, as it was none of his concern (and Enjolras was more than a little oblivious anyway). Instead, he asked Montparnasse, “Let me guess, two cents’ worth of shoelaces?”

Montparnasse shot Grantaire a look and turned back to Enjolras. “He was here first.”

Grantaire shot Montparnasse a look right back and shook his head, glancing at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye. “I’m still thinking,” he said, more to Enjolras than Montparnasse.

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras asked Montparnasse again, “Shoelaces?”

Smiling sweetly, Montparnasse nodded and told Enjolras, fluttering his eyelashes as he did, “Please, Enjy.”

Enjolras’s lip curled at the nickname, but he turned to get the shoelaces. Montparnasse leaned over to Grantaire, winking broadly at him. “I like him,” he told Grantaire, who just glared at him sullenly.

“You like every boy,” Grantaire snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Laughing, Montparnasse sat upright, leaning forward on to the counter to stare at Enjolras. “What’s wrong with that?”

Before Grantaire could respond, Enjolras came back with licorice shoelaces, sliding them across counter to Montparnasse, who handed him two pennies. “Here you go,” Enjolras said, unusually gruff.

Montparnasse beamed at him as he accepted the licorice. “Help me down?” he asked, simpering slightly.

Enjolras glared at him, disgusted. “Help you down?” he repeated incredulously. Montparnasse tossed his hair and slid off the stool by himself, ignoring as Grantaire snickered and stuck his tongue out at Montparnasse’s retreating back.

Grantaire turned back to Enjolras, who regarded him disinterestedly. “Made up your mind yet?” Enjolras asked.

Sighing slightly, Grantaire propped his chin on his hand and nodded firmly. “I’ll take chocolate.”

Enjolras nodded and turned to scoop some chocolate ice cream into a glass dish. “Do you want coconut on it?” he asked over his shoulder.

Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t like coconuts.”

“You don’t like coconuts?” Enjolras scoffed, turning back to raise an incredulous eyebrow at Grantaire. “Don’t you know where coconuts come from?” When Grantaire shook his head, Enjolras sighed. “A long way from here, that’s for sure. Tahiti, Fiji Islands, the Coral Sea…”

He bent to add some coconut to the ice cream despite Grantaire’s insistence that he didn’t like coconuts, and Grantaire leaned over to the counter, as close to Enjolras’s bowed head as he dared. “Is this the ear you can’t hear out of?” Grantaire asked, looking part elated and part terrified. “Enjolras Lamarque, I’ll love you until the day I die.”

He quickly sat down before Enjolras stood upright, a grin lingering on his face as he accepted the dish of ice cream. Enjolras carried on from their previous conversation. “I’m going to go to all of these places one day, you watch. I’m going to explore the world, and I’m going to change things. I’ll leave my impact on the world. Wait and see.”

Turning to the cash register to ring up first Montparnasse’s licorice and then Grantaire’s ice cream, Enjolras began whistling loudly. Mabeuf poked his head out from the back room. “Enjolras,” he snapped, waiting until Enjolras had turned to look at him before he snarled, “You’re not paid to be a canary.”

“No, sir,” Enjolras said, only a little meekly, as it wasn’t in his nature to be obedient. He glanced at the open telegram next to the cash register and picked it up, wondering if this might explain Mabeuf’s unexpectedly foul mood, and was surprised to read, “We regret to inform you that your son died very suddenly this morning of influenza stop.”

He glanced back towards where Mabeuf was fiddling with some capsules in the back room, and instantly understood Mr. Mabeuf’s bad mood, his own heart going out to the man. He headed to the back room, hands in his pockets, not noticing the way Grantaire stared after him as he went. “Mr. Mabeuf?” Enjolras asked quietly. “Do you want some help or something? Anything?”

Mabeuf shook his head jerkily, his hands shaking as well. “No,” he snapped.

“Anything I can do back here?” Enjolras asked hopefully, wanting to do something to help Mabeuf, noticing for the first time the reek of alcohol on Mabeuf’s breath.

“No,” Mabeuf said again, though he dropped the capsules he had been putting into the pill box, the capsules spilling out on the floor.

“I’ll get them, sir,” Enjolras said quickly, bending to put the capsules back into the box. As he did, he looked warily at the bottle of powder that Mabeuf had used for the capsules, his face paling when he saw the label ‘CAUTION: POISON’ printed in peeling letters on one corner.

Mabeuf’s voice was still harsh as he told Enjolras, “Take the capsules over to Mrs. Blaine’s. She’s waiting for them.”

Enjolras stood slowly, still staring at the bottle, his hands beginning to shake as he clenched the pill box in his hands. “Yes, sir. They, uh, they have the diphtheria there, don’t they, sir?”

Mabeuf paid no attention to Enjolras’s question, settling into a chair in the corner, staring straight ahead. Enjolras bit his lip and asked again, “Is it a charge, sir?”

“Yes, charge,” Mabeuf said distractedly.

Looking down at the pills, Enjolras asked, his voice getting desperate, “Mr. Mabeuf, I think—”

“Aw, get going!” Mabeuf snarled, swiping at Enjolras, who quickly scurried out of the backroom, the pills clenched in one hand. He hesitated only for a brief moment before darting out of the store, ignoring the way Grantaire stared after him.

He ran down the street until he came to a ramshackle building. Ignoring the carriage parked out front, he dashed up the stairs and underneath the sign that read, “Lamarque Building and Loan Association.”

The inside of the Building and Loan was just as dilapidated as the front, but Enjolras paid it no mind, heading straight for the door marked, “Jean Lamarque, Private.” He ignored his cousin, Bossuet, who was listening at the door, and his other cousin, Joly, who was talking on the phone.

Bossuet grabbed him by the arm just as he was about to enter his father’s office. “Hold on there, Enj!” he exclaimed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’ve got to see Pop, Bossuet,” Enjolras told him distractedly, trying to wrench his arm out of Bossuet’s grip.

Shaking his head, Bossuet pulled him away from the door. “Some other time. There’s a squall in there that’s shaping up into a storm.”

Joly, still on the telephone, called out, “Bossuet, telephone.”

“Who is it?” Bossuet asked, his grip on Enjolras’s arm slackening.

Rolling his eyes,  Joly told him, “It’s the bank examiner.”

“Bank examiner?” Bossuet repeated, looking down at his hand, where he had tied string around his fingers to remind him of what he needed to do. “Oh no. I should’ve called him yesterday. Switch it inside.” He headed into his own office, forgetting completely about Enjolras, who took the opportunity to dart inside his father’s office.

Lamarque was seated behind his desk, his brow furrowed as he stared across at Mr. Philippe, who sat like a king on his throne in his wheelchair, smirking at Lamarque. “I’m not crying, Mr. Philippe,” Lamarque snapped.

“Well, you’re begging, and that’s a whole lot worse,” Philippe told him blithely, his mouth lifted in a cruel smile.

Shaking his head, Lamarque told him, edging on desperation, “All I’m asking for is thirty days more…”

Enjolras slid over to his side. “Pop!” he interrupted, his voice insistent.

“Just a minute,” Lamarque said distractedly before turning back to Philippe. “Just thirty short days. I’ll dig up that five thousand somehow.”

“Pop!”

“Have you put any real pressure on those people of yours to pay those mortgages?” Philippe asked, ignoring Enjolras, who was all but tugging on his father’s shirtsleeve.

Lamarque shook his head. “Times are bad, Mr. Philippe. A lot of these people are out of work.”

Philippe snorted loudly. “Then foreclose!”

“I can’t do that,” Lamarque said quietly, rubbing a hand across his eyes tiredly. “These families have children.”

“Pop!”

Philippe leaned forward, sneering. “They’re not my children. And not with my money!”

Lamarque ground his teeth in frustration. “Mr. Philippe, what makes you such a hard-skulled character? You have no family, no children. You can’t even begin to spend all the money you’ve got!”

“So I suppose I should give it to miserable failures like you and those nephews of yours to spend for me?” Philippe snapped.

Enjolras had heard enough, and he rounded on Philippe, his eyes blazing. “He’s not a failure!” he snapped, stepping towards Philippe, his fists clenched at his sides. “You can’t say that about my father!”

Lamarque stood, “Enjolras,” he said soothingly, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“You’re not!” Enjolras told him, forgetting all about the pills still clenched in his fist as he looked up at his father. “You’re the biggest man in town.”

Shaking his head, Lamarque pushed Enjolras towards the door. “Run along,” he told Enjolras softly.

Enjolras glared at Philippe, who regarded him without any concern on his face. “Bigger than him,” he snapped, all but growling at Philippe. “Bigger than everybody!”

Lamarque steered him to the door, and Philippe called after them scornfully, “Gives you an idea of the Lamarques!”

Once they were outside the office, Enjolras turned back to his father. “Don’t let him say that about you, Pop.”

Lamarque squeezed his shoulder briefly and sighed. “Alright, son, thanks. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

He closed the door on Enjolras as he went back to his meeting with Philippe, and Enjolras was left outside the office, pills still in hand, still without any answer for what to do.

Enjolras made his way much to the drugstore much slower than he had left, and when he arrived, Mabeuf was on the phone, his voice growing in volume as he said, “Why, that medicine should have been there an hour ago! It’ll be over in five minutes, Mrs. Blaine.”

He turned to see Enjolras staring at him, and he grabbed Enjolras by the shirt. “Where’s Mrs. Blaine’s box of capsules?” When Enjolras didn’t answer, he dragged him into the back room. “Did you hear what I said?”

Enjolras shrank away from him. “Yes, sir, I—”

Mabeuf slapped him around the head, asking him while he did, “What kind of tricks are you playing at, anyway? Why didn’t you deliver them right away? Don’t you know that boy’s very sick?”

Though Enjolras tried to take the abuse as best he could, he couldn’t help but cry out as the slaps hit his bad ear. “You’re hurting my sore ear,” he cried.

Out at the soda fountain, Grantaire, who was still finished up his ice cream, winced at the sound of every slap, and was about to get out of the stool to come to Enjolras’s aid when Enjolras cried out, “Mr. Mabeuf, you don’t know what you’re doing! You put something wrong in those capsules.”

The slaps abated temporarily, and Enjolras said quickly, “I know you’re unhappy, you got that telegram, and you’re upset. But you put something bad in those capsules. It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Mabeuf, but…” He handed the capsules to Mabeuf, who all but ripped the box out of his hands. “Just look and see what you did,” Enjolras added in a quieter tone. “It’s poison. I know you feel bad, and…and…”

His voice faltered, his hand cupping his sore ear, and Mabeuf looked from the pills to the bottle of powder still on the counter. He opened one of the capsules and poured the powder out, cautiously tasting it. As soon as he did, he threw the whole mess away and turned back to Enjolras, who whimpered slightly even as he still faced Mabeuf squarely. “Don’t hurt my sore ear again,” Enjolras said hoarsely.

But Mabeuf did no such thing, practically falling to his knees as he pulled Enjolras to him, hugging him in a bone-crushing embrace, beginning to cry heavily. “Oh Enjolras, Enjolras,” he sobbed.

Enjolras hugged him back. “I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Mabeuf. I know what you’re feeling. I won’t ever tell a soul. Hope to die, I won’t.”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Mabeuf said again.

(The scene before Joseph and Myriel spun and changed, revealing an incredibly handsome blond man in a luggage shop.

“Nope, nope, nope. Now look, Joe, look, I want a big one!” the blond said, gesturing enthusiastically to indicate just how large of a suitcase he was looking for, and the scene froze.

“What’d you stop it for?” Myriel asked.

Joseph chuckled slightly. “I want you to take a good look at that face.”

Myriel was quiet for a moment before asking, “Who is it?”

“Enjolras Lamarque, of course.”

After only a brief moment more, Myriel said decidedly, “It’s a good face. I like it. I like Enjolras Lamarque. Tell me, did he ever tell anyone about the pills?”

“Not a soul.”

Myriel asked excitedly, “Well, did he ever marry Grantaire? Did he ever go off and change the world like he wanted?”

Laughing, Joseph told him calmly, “Well, wait and see.”)


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras gestured dramatically at the sales clerk. “I need a big suitcase, see? I don’t want one for one night, I want something for a  _thousand_ and one nights, with plenty of labels for all the places that I’m going to go, from Paris and Baghdad and Hong Kong…a great big one!”

The clerk hid a smile as he put the suitcase he had just shown Enjolras away. “I see, a flying carpet, huh?” He pulled an older, large suitcase from under the counter and set it down on top, opening it to show Enjolras all the room inside. “I don’t suppose you’d like this old second-hand job, would you?”

The smile on Enjolras’s face was wide as he examined it. “Now you’re talking. Gee whiz, I bet I could use this as a raft in case the boat sank. How much does it cost?”

“No charge.”

Enjolras frowned at him and leaned in closer, turning his head as he told him, “That had to have been my trick ear, because it sounded like you said no charge.”

The clerk grinned broadly at him and closed the lid to show him the name already stamped on the suitcase in shiny red letters – ‘Enjolras Lamarque’. “That’s right.”

“What’s my name doing on it?” Enjolras asked, reaching out to rub his thumb over the letters.

Shrugging, the clerk told him, “A little present from old man Mabeuf. Came down here and picked it out himself, just for you.”

Enjolras grinned again as he picked up the bag and held it in front of himself. “He did? Well, what do you know about that. My old boss…”

The clerk leaned against the counter, still smiling at him. “What boat are you sailing on?”

Without looking away from his bag, Enjolras shrugged and said, “I’m working across on a cattle boat.”

“A cattle boat?” the clerk repeated, laughing, though Enjolras silenced him with one of his more terrifying glares.

“It’s fine. I like cows.”

With that said, he left, taking the bag with him as he headed across to Mabeuf’s drugstore so that he could thank him in person for the suitcase. Mabeuf had changed greatly since that day back when Enjolras was a kid. He had sobered up, become a better man, always laughing and joking with his customers, and as soon as Enjolras walked in, his face lit up. “Enjolras!”

Enjolras grinned as he held up the suitcase. “Mr. Mabeuf, thank you ever so much for the bag! It’s exactly what I wanted.”

Mabeuf waved a dismissive hand, smiling just as everyone in the shop did at Enjolras’s enthusiasm. “Aw, forget it.”

“It really is a wonderful bag,” Enjolras told him, and Mabeuf just shook his head, smiling fondly.

“Well, I just hope you enjoy it. And don’t forget about all of us back here.”

Enjolras smiled at him, and at everyone else who was still looking at him. “I won’t. I can promise you that.” He crossed to the counter so that he could shake Mabeuf’s hand. “Thank you. I won’t forget this, I promise you that.”

He left Mabeuf’s soon after, after shaking what seemed like everyone’s hand in the store – Enjolras was popular enough with most of the townspeople, though whether that was because of his particularly charming personality, the way that he worked tiredlessly at the Building and Loan, or just because it was a small town where everyone knew everyone, he couldn’t say – and headed to the only taxi cab in town, driven by one of Enjolras’s best friends, Bahorel. “Hey, Bahorel!”

Bahorel grinned at him and nudged another of their friends, Combeferre the police officer. “Hiya, Enj.”

“Hey Combeferre.”

Combeferre nodded at him. “Enjolras.”

Enjolras grinned at them both. “Hey Bahorel, I’m a rich tourist today. How about giving me a ride home in style? It’s almost my last day in town for awhile.”

 Combeferre took the suitacase from Enjolras and put it inside the cab as Bahorel laughed. “Sure thing, your highness,” Bahorel teased. “Hop in. And, just for you, I’ll even put on my hat.”

Though Enjolras rolled his eyes at Bahorel’s attitude, he still started to climb into the car, stopping halfway when he caught sight of a slick-looking man strolling down the street, wearing the most fashionable suit cut just right to emphasize his broad shoulders, slim waist and perfectly delectable derriere. The man gave a little wave to Enjolras. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lamarque.”

“Hello, Montparnasse,” Enjolras managed, though his voice sounded unexpectedly hoarse. “Hey, you look good. That’s some suit you’ve got on there.”

Montparnasse grinned at him, a wicked grin, and smoothed the front of his suit jacket. “What, this old thing?” he asked in a simpering tone. “Why, I only wear it when I don’t care how I look.”

He walked past them then, and all three men turned as he went to watch him walk away, openly ogling as he went past. Slowly Enjolras eased himself into the cab, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then he grinned up at Combeferre. “Want to come along, Ferre? We’ll show you the town?”

Combeferre blushed and cleared his throat, tearing his eyes from Montparnasse’s retreating figure to look down at his watch. “Um, no. Thanks. I, uh, I think I’ll go home early, see what the wife’s doing.”

Bahorel sniggered as he started the engine of the cab. “Family man,” he told Enjolras, who just laughed.

* * *

 

It was a rowdy evening in the Lamarque household. Marius’s graduation party was that night, and Marius and Enjolras were upstairs laughing and playing around as Mr. and Mrs. Lamarque, and their housekeeper, Madame Hucheloup, were downstairs finishing up with dinner. Mrs. Lamarque rolled her eyes and sighed as there was a particularly loud clunking. “Enjolras! Marius! You’re going to shake the house down! Stop it!”

Lamarque laughed, leaning back in his chair as he sipped his drink. “Oh, leave them alone. I wish I was young enough to be up there with them.”

“Marius will tear his dinner suit,” Mrs. Lamarque scolding, shaking her head, though she sat back in her chair.

Madame Hucheloup shook her head as well, clearing the dishes off of the table. “That’s why all children should be girls,” she said, huffing a sigh as she carried the dishes into the kitchen.

Mrs. Lamarque frowned. “But if they were all girls, there wouldn’t be any…” She trailed off, realizing that Madame Hucheloup wasn’t listening to a word that she said. “Oh, never mind.” She stood and made her way over to the stairs, calling up to Enjolras and Marius, “Come down here this minute! Everything’s getting cold and we’re waiting for you for dessert!”

Both Marius and Enjolras thundered down the stairs, picking Mrs. Lamarque up between them and depositing her on Lamarque’s lap. “Here’s a present for you, Pop,” Marius laughed.

While Lamarque kissed her cheek, Mrs. Lamarque swatted at the two boys, though she was laughing more than scowling. “You two idiots. Sit down.”

“I’ve already eaten,” Marius assured her.

She stood and smoothed out her skirt. “Well, aren’t you going to finish dressing for your graduation party? Look at you!”

Marius just grinned. “I don’t care. It’s Enjolras’s tux.”

Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes, sitting down next to his father, who was still laughing. As Madame Hucheloup made her way across the room with more plates, Marius turned to follow her, but she shook her head and scowled at him. “If you lay a hand on me, I’ll hit you with the broom.”

“But Madame, I’m in love with you!” Marius protested jokingly, following her into the kitchen. “There’s a moon out tonight!”

Snorting, Enjolras dug in to the piece of pie in front of him. “My last meal at the old Lamarque boarding house,” he said off-handedly, more to himself than to either of his parents.

Marius stuck his head back into the room. “Hey Pop, can I have the car? I’m going to take over a lot of plates and things.”

Mrs. Lamarque stood instantly. “Not my best Haviland.”

Waving her away, Marius reassured her as she headed towards the kitchen, “I’m chairman of the eats committee and we only need a couple of dozen…”

They both disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Enjolras and Lamarque eating in relative silence. Lamarque finished his pie and, after swallowing, told Enjolras in quietly serious tone, “Hope you have a good trip, Enjolras. Bossuet, Joly and I are going to miss you.”

Enjolras frowned at him. “I’m going to miss you all, too, Pop, but what’s the matter? You look tired, and I’m sure it’s not just because of my departure.”

Lamarque sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing. I just had another tussle with Philippe today.”

“Oh.” The word was short and cut off as Enjolras uttered it, filled with years of frustration and something very close to downright hatred, for the way Philippe treated the town, for the way he treated the Lamarques, for everything.

Nodding, Lamarque sighed and ran a tired hand across his face. “I thought when we put him on the Board of Directors for the Building and Loan, he’d ease up on us a little bit.”

Enjolras’s grip on his fork tightened. “I wonder what’s eating that old money-grubbing buzzard anyway?” he asked, stabbing a piece of pie with more force than entirely necessary.

Lamarque sighed again, and grimaced. “Oh, he’s a sick man,” he told Enjolras, leaning forward in his chair. “Frustrated and sick. Sick in his mind, sick in his soul, if he even has one. He hates everybody that has anything that he can’t have, and hates us mostly, I guess.”

Marius strode out from the kitchen, carrying multiple pies as Mrs. Lamarque followed after him with the plates. “So long!” he called cheerfully. “You coming later, Enjolras?”

Enjolras snorted. “What, and be bored to death? No thanks.”

“Can’t want a better death,” Marius told him seriously. “Lots of pretty boys and girls, and we’re going to the use the new gymnasium floor that you suggested tonight.”

Enjolras went slightly pink and he frowned down at the table. “I had nothing to do with it,” he protested. “Anyone who had read the same article I did on retractable floors would have suggested the same thing.”

Marius just shrugged, trying not to drop the pies, and Lamarque told him sternly, “No gin tonight.”

Pouting dramatically, Marius whined, “Aw, c’mon, just a little.”

“Not one drop,” Lamarque said, fixing him with a glare eerily similar to the ones Enjolras normally wore, and Marius sighed but nodded, heading out to the car.

Enjolras just shook his head. “Boys and girls and music. Why does anyone need gin?” he mused. “Did I act like that when I graduated from high school?”

Lamarque laughed. “Pretty much.” He fell silent for a moment before saying, “You know, Enjolras, we wish we could send Marius to college with you. Your mother and I talked about it over half the night, but without the inheritance from his grandfather, we just can’t afford it.”

Looking up at him, Enjolras shook his head and told him, “But we have that all figured out. Marius will take my job at the Building and Loan, work there four years like I did and save up money, and then he’ll go.”

Something tightened on Lamarque’s face as he glanced away from Enjolras. “He’s pretty young for that job.”

“He’s no younger than I was,” Enjolras pointed out, frowning at his father.

Lamarque shrugged and said quietly, “But he’s not you. And besides, I think you were born older.” Silence fell between them again before Lamarque asked, “I suppose you’ve decided what you’re going to do when you get out of college?”

“Of course!” Enjolras said instantly, almost laughing. “I’m going to do what I’ve always planned on doing. I’m gonna change the world. Travel all around and solve people’s problems. Make the system work for people instead of constantly against them. Do some  _good_  in this world, show that things  _can_ change.”

Chucking softly, Lamarque shook his head. “Still after changing the entire course of history by the time you’re thirty.”

Enjolras smiled at him. “No, I’d settle for changing part of the course of history.”

Madame Hucheloup came in quietly from the kitchen, grabbing the broom from the corner and pretending to sweep while she listened in to their conversation. Lamarque glanced at Enjolras before asking slowly, “Of course, it’s just a hope, but you wouldn’t consider coming back to the Building and Loan after you graduated, would you?”

Enjolras froze, as did Madame Hucheloup, who seemed to be holding her breath. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at her. “Why don’t you draw up a chair?” he asked wryly. “Then you’d be more comfortable and you could hear everything that we’re talking about.”

Sniffing, Madame Hucheloup resumed her sweeping. “I would if I thought I’d hear anything worth listening to,” she told him, making her way back into the kitchen.

Enjolras turned back to his father, who sighed again. “I know it’s too soon to talk about it…”

“Oh, Pop,” Enjolras said, awkwardly, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I…I couldn’t. I couldn’t face being cooped up here for the rest of my life in that shabby little office.” Lamarque stiffened and Enjolras winced, hurriedly adding, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but this business of nickels and dimes and spending all your life trying to figure out how to save three cents on a piece of pipe…I’d go crazy. I want to do something  _big_ , something  _important_ , something that changes the world.”

Lamarque nodded slowly. “You know, Enjolras, I feel that in a small way we are doing something important. Satisfying a fundamental urge. It’s deep in the race for a man to want his own roof and walls and fireplace, and we’re helping him get those things.” He paused before adding, “Even from our shabby little office.”

Enjolras leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “But that’s just it. I want to change things so that a man doesn’t have to want for those things at all! I want to change the whole system so that everyone can be secure and happy and fulfilled. That’s what I want to do. And I wish…I wish I felt more…” He broke off, trying to find words for what he was saying, then sighed and said, “I’ve been hoarding pennies like a miser in order to go to college, and most of my friends have already graduated. I just feel like if I don’t get away, I’d bust!”

Though Lamarque nodded again, he still looked troubled, and Enjolras added, almost desperately, “You see what I mean, don’t you, Pop?”

“Of course,” Lamarque told him instantly, managing a smile. “This town is no place for any man unless he’s willing to crawl to Philippe, and that’s not you. I know that. You’ve got a chance, son. You get yourself an education, and then get out of here.”

Enjolras smiled at him. “Pop, do you want a shock? I think you’re a great guy.” He flushed after the sentiment left his mouth; he was not normally one to show casual affection towards his father, even though he respected him deeply. Clearing his throat, he raised his voice and asked loudly, “Did you hear that, Madame?”

“I heard it!” Madame Hucheloup hollered from the kitchen. “About time one of you lunkheads said it.”

Chuckling lightly, Enjolras turned back to his father. “Ah, I’m going to miss her, too. Well, Pop, I think I’ll get dressed and go over to Marius’s party after all.”

Lamarque nodded and patted Enjolras’s hand. “Have a good time.”

* * *

 

Enjolras pushed his way through the crowds, surprised as always by how old some of these kids had gotten. He remember serving them ice cream and candy in Mabeuf’s drugstore, and here they were, graduating from high school. It made him feel very old.

He made his way to Marius, who grinned up at him before introducing him to his friends. “You know my adopted brother, Enjolras. I’m going to put him through college.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras made to retort, but was interrupted by someone grabbing his shoulder. “Here comes trouble—I mean, Enjolras,” a familiar voice laughed in his ear. “Hello, hee-haw!”

Enjolras turned, grinning. “Courfeyrac! How are you doing? When did you get here?”

Courfeyrac beamed at him. “I got in this afternoon. I thought I’d give the kids a treat and show up tonight.”

“Old college graduate now, huh?” Enjolras teased.

Courfeyrac just laughed. “Yeah, old Joe College Courfeyrac, they call me. Well, freshman, it looks like you’re going to make it after all.”

Enjolras nodded firmly. “That’s right.”

Looking past him, Courfeyrac grinned at Marius. “Ah, Marius, just the chap that I was hoping to talk to!”

He brushed past Enjolras, leaving him to face the old principal, who swept in to shake Enjolras’s hand. “Enjolras, welcome back.”

“How are you?” Enjolras asked politely, figuring it was just his lot in life to be stuck talking to the principal while everyone else had fun.

“Oh fine, fine.” The principal tipped him a large wink. “Putting a pool under the floor was a great idea, you know. Saved us from having to build another building, and saved us a lot of money, too. Now you boys, have fun!”

Just as the principal left, Enjolras saw Montparnasse, who grinned almost ferally at Enjolras. “Hello, Enjolras,” he practically purred, leaning in towards him, holding out his dance card. “What am I bid?”

Enjolras was saved from answering by an insistent tug on his arm, and he turned to see Jean Prouvaire grinning at him. “Enjolras!”

“Prouvaire!” Enjolras said, surprised. “Well, it’s coming home week apparently. How have you been?”

Jehan waved his hand. “Oh fine, fine. But hey, will you do me a favor, Enj?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “Sure, what’s that?”

“Do you remember my cousin, Grantaire?” At Enjolras’s hesitant nod, Jehan barreled forward. “Dance with him tonight, would you?”

Biting his lip, Enjolras hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know, Jehan. I feel funny already, with all these kids, and you know I don’t dance.”

Jehan shook his head, still eager. “Aw, come on. Be a sport. Just dance with him this one time and you’ll give him the thrill of his life, I promise.” Without waiting for Enjolras’s reply, he grabbed his arm, pulling him away from Montparnasse, who pouted.

“Well, fine,” Enjolras acquiesced, since there wasn’t much else he could do, being already halfway across the floor. “Don’t be long, Jehan, I don’t want to be stuck—”

The words died in his throat when he saw Grantaire, standing next to the punch table, looking up at some guy – Babet, his mind supplied, but Enjolras didn’t care. Grantaire was dressed in a suit for the first time that Enjolras could recall, and while it may not have been as fashionable and fancy as Montparnasse’s, it set off his dark curls and his blue eyes and made him look just…incredible.

As soon as Jehan dragged him close, Grantaire glanced over, and seemed to freeze, completely ignoring Babet, who kept talking as if he hadn’t noticed while Grantaire smiled up at Enjolras shyly. “And the next thing I know, some guy came up and tripped me,” Babet was complaining, while Grantaire had eyes only for Enjolras, who couldn’t seem to look away from him. “That’s the reason why I came in fourth. If it hadn’t been for that…”

“You remember Enjolras?” Jehan cut in smoothly, somehow managing to step between Babet and Grantaire, who still hadn’t looked away from Enjolras. “Well, this is Grantaire. I’ll be seeing you.”

Enjolras blushed slightly, but still managed a smile for Grantaire, who smiled back just as tentatively. “Well, well, well,” Enjolras said slowly.

Babet frowned at them both and turned back to Grantaire, clearly trying to cut Enjolras out of the conversation. “Now, to get back to my story, you see—”

Grantaire handed his punch cup to Babet and grabbed Enjolras’s hand, letting Enjolras pull him out to the dance floor. Babet stared after them, aghast. “Hey, this is my dance!” he complained.

“Oh, why don’t you stop annoying people?” Grantaire shot back, grinning up at Enjolras as he tentatively placed his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder.

Enjolras swallowed before placing his own hand on the small of Grantaire’s back and smiling at him. “Well, hello,” he said, feeling rather stupid.

Grantaire laughed lightly. “Hello. You’re looking at me as if you don’t know me.”

“Well, I don’t,” Enjolras said, blushing and feeling even stupider than he previously did.

Grantaire’s smile faded slightly. “You pass me on the street almost every day, it seems like. I mean, I’m not that noticeable, and I know that, but—”

“That wasn’t you,” Enjolras said quickly, not wanting Grantaire to get the wrong idea. “That was some little kid named Grantaire. Couldn’t have been you. You’re all grown up.”

A whistle sounded and Enjolras and Grantaire stopped dancing, though Grantaire’s hand remained loosely on Enjolras’s shoulder, and Enjolras didn’t move his hand from Grantaire’s back. “Attention, attention!” Marius called, stepping onto the platform. “It’s the time you’ve all been waiting for – the Charleston dance contest! Those not tapped by the judges will remain on the floor. Let’s go!”

The music started up again, much faster this time, and Enjolras turned back to Grantaire, giving a sideways glance to the couples already dancing around them. “I’m not very good at this,” he admitted.

Grantaire laughed slightly. “Neither am I.”

There was an awkward moment before Enjolras took a deep breath and suggested, “Well, what have we got to lose then?”

They started dancing as best as they could, considering neither of them was particularly well-versed in the Charleston. Still, Grantaire had excellent rhythm and the ability to make anything look good, it seemed, and what Enjolras lacked in finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm, drawing good-natured laughter from Grantaire, who still grinned at him as if there wasn’t another person in the room besides them.

Over at the sidelines of the dance floor, Babet sulked, staring at Enjolras and Grantaire dancing. Claquesous, a weedy-looking figure, sidled up next to him. “Hey, slick, what’s the matter? Jealous?” Babet shrugged. “Well, did you know that there’s a swimming pool under this floor?” Another shrug. “And did you know that the button right next to you causes this floor to open up?” A third shrug. “And did you further know that Enjolras Lamarque is dancing right over that crack?” This drew a fourth shrug but also a mildly intrigued look, and Claquesous leaned in, grinning. “Did you know that I’ve got the key?”

Babet grinned and grabbed the key from him, slotting it in the keyhole and pressing the button that caused the gymnasium floor to open up, revealing the swimming pool beneath.

Enjolras and Grantaire were completely oblivious as the floor began opening up underneath them, dancing perilously close to the edge, too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else that was happening. As more and more people began to notice the floor opening, they gasped and screamed whenever either Enjolras or Grantaire approached the edge, most of the people around them stopping dancing. “We must be good?” Enjolras said, raising an eyebrow at Grantaire, who just shrugged, still laughing.

The entire crowd had stopped to watch, and Enjolras and Grantaire kept right on dancing, until, holding each other’s hand, they danced too close to the edge and fell right into the swimming pool. Grantaire spluttered as he surfaced, and Enjolras shook water out of his hair. “Well then,” Grantaire said breathlessly, grabbing Enjolras’s hand and twirling him, continuing their dance even in the water, and continuing to ignore everyone else around them, even as the entire rest of the school jumped into the swimming pool with them.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras and Grantaire walked slowly down the street, neither wearing their fancy clothes from earlier in the evening. Instead, Enjolras was dressed in a sweater and football pants that were far too large for him, barely held up by his belt, his still-wet suit tucked under his arm. Grantaire, on the other hand, wore a fluffy white bathrobe, also holding his clothing, his tuxedo balled carelessly into a soaking wet pile that he carried in front of him. “So this was certainly not the way I saw the evening turning out,” Grantaire said lightly, blinking up almost innocently at Enjolras, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Laughing slightly, Enjolras told Grantaire, “And here I told Marius that I’d be bored to death.” He nodded down at Grantaire’s bathrobe. “I’m impressed that you managed to snag that robe. You should’ve seen the commotion I had to get through in the locker room to get this.” He paused, then said, “Here, let me take those wet clothes for you.”

Though Grantaire handed the bundle of clothes to Enjolras, he also raised an eyebrow at him. “What a gentleman,” he said coolly, his slightly smile turning almost sarcastic. His gaze raked up and down Enjolras’s body in a way that made Enjolras blush slightly. “Do I look as ridiculous as you?”

“I guess I’m not quite the football type,” Enjolras said wryly, glancing down at his clothes, grabbing the sides of the sweater and holding it away from his body, knowing as well as Grantaire did that he had never been considered the most athletic. “But you…” He looked at Grantaire carefully. “You look wonderful.” His blush deepened and he quickly turned away, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. “You know, if it wasn’t me talking, I’d say you were the handsomest guy there tonight.”

Now Grantaire’s eyebrows crept so high up his forehead that they almost disappeared into his dark curls. “Well, why don’t you say it, then?” he said, though there was something of a grimace in his features as he did, as if he both did and did not want to hear Enjolras say those words, especially about him.

Enjolras glanced back at him, frowning slightly, as much perplexed by Grantaire’s attitude towards the whole thing as he was by the fact that he had had the thought in the first place, had thought that Grantaire was handsome, had even considered saying as such out loud, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest before staring down at the sidewalk. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Maybe I will say it.” He shot Grantaire another look before blurting out, “How old are you, anyway?”

Grantaire blinked at him, surprised by the question, and told him honestly, “Eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Enjolras repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth just as much as he was rolling the idea around in his head. It wasn’t the age difference that bothered him; it was the fact that he was considering their age difference at all that bothered him. Enjolras had never been one for dating, not really, always too focused on working so that he could get out of this town to think about dating anyone, let alone some eighteen year old kid that he barely knew. He shook his head, hesitant. “Why, it was only last year that you were seventeen.”

Grantaire’s answering smile was a twisted, almost bitter smile. “Too young or too old?”

Enjolras looked at him, surprised by the question. “Oh, no. Just right. Your age fits you.” He blushed at the words coming out of his mouth, words that he had barely thought before, let alone shared with the person he had thought them about, and said quickly, “You, uh, you look a little older without your clothes on.” Grantaire’s smile turned into a smirk, and Enjolras hastened to try and cover his foot in mouth situation. “I mean, without a suit. You look older. I mean…you look younger. You just look…”

As Enjolras had stammered his way through that failure of a sentence, he hadn’t noticed that he had stepped on the sash of Grantaire’s bathrobe, causing Grantaire to stop mid-step, gathering the robe against him. Enjolras stared at him and Grantaire blushed slightly and held out his hand before saying in a commanding tone, “Sir, my train, please.”

Enjolras looked down and realized for the first time that he was standing on the sash. He quickly stepped off of it, blushing scarlet, and grabbed it off the ground, telling him, “A pox upon me for being a clumsy lout.” He handed the sash to Grantaire, who slung it over his arm, looking at Enjolras as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him. “Your…your caboose,” Enjolras told him, lamely, feeling the blush creep up his neck.

Grantaire smirked at him and held out his hand again. “You may kiss my hand,” he told Enjolras, his eyes sparkling wickedly as Enjolras’s blush deepened and he stared at Grantaire’s hand as if he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it, as if he wasn’t considering doing exactly what Grantaire had commanded.

“Umm,” Enjolras started, and he had just reached out as if to grab Grantaire’s hand and kiss it as he had suggested when Grantaire laughed, just a little forced, and turned away, heading slowly down the sidewalk away from Enjolras. Enjolras stared after him, still blushing like an idiot. He had never felt like this before, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he liked it. It was distracting, that was sure, and he had no idea how he was supposed to act or what he was supposed to say, and for someone like Enjolras, who was renowned for his rhetoric and for his grace and charisma, this situation made him feel like a fish out of water.

It also felt more real than anything he had done in years.

He cleared his throat and glanced away from Grantaire, trying to look at anything but the back of the dark-haired man as he all but strut away from him. His eyes lighted on the ramshackle house they had stopped in front of, a weather-beaten two-storied house that had once been the pride of Bedford Falls but had fallen into disrepair over the years. “Right,” he said, or decided, more accurately, hoping to distract himself from what had just happened. “I’m gonna throw a rock at the old Granville house.”

Grantaire froze and turned back to Enjolras, emotions flickering over his face as he said quickly, “Oh no! Don’t. I love that old house.”

Enjolras glanced from the dilapidated house back to Grantaire, who looked more earnest than he had all evening. “No, but it’s tradition,” Enjolras told him, hefting a rock in his hand. “You make a wish and then you try and break some glass. You’ve got to be a pretty good shot nowadays, too, with as little glass as there is left.”

“No, Enjolras, don’t,” Grantaire said, something sad in his voice. “It’s full of romance, that old place. I’d love to live in it someday.”

Snorting, Enjolras asked Grantaire incredulously, “In that old place? I wouldn’t live in it as a ghost.”

Grantaire frowned and switched tactics. “I didn’t realize that casual vandalism was your style.”

“Ah, I’m always one to subvert the system,” Enjolras told him cheerfully. “Now watch – the window on the second floor there.”

He threw the rock in a perfect arc, shattering the remaining piece of glass in that window, smiling fiercely as he did. On the porch of the house across the street, a man leaned forward as he heard the glass break, frowning at the pair. Grantaire bit his lip and glanced at Enjolras. “What did you wish for?”

Enjolras was still smiling. “Oh, I didn’t wish just one wish. I wished a whole hatful. I know what I’m going to do tomorrow and the next day and the next year and the year after that.” His voice grew in volume and conviction as he talked, his eyes brightening at the thought of all he would accomplish. “I’m shaking the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I’m going to see the world, see all the people and all the places, Paris, England, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, China, all of it. Then I’m coming back here to go to college and see what they can teach me there, and then I’m going to change the world.” He quieted there, less fire and more quiet conviction. “I’m going to make things better for people. I’m going to fight so that those who come after us don’t have to fight anymore. I’m going to make the world take care of its people the way that people should take care of the world.”

As Enjolras talked, something flashed across Grantaire’s face, ranging from sudden despair to skepticism to determination, and just as Enjolras was finishing his rant, Grantaire bent and grabbed a rock off the ground, holding it in his fist. Enjolras broke off and glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Are you going to throw a rock?”

In answer, Grantaire glanced at Enjolras, something unreadable on his face, and then lobbed the rock at the house, looking completely unsurprised as the tinkling sound of breaking glass met their ears. Enjolras, on the other hand, was nonplussed, and the surprise was evident in his voice when he said, “That was a good throw. What did you wish?”

Grantaire just looked at him, his eyes dark and his expression tight, and backed away from him, his smile resuming its previous smirk, and in lieu of answering, he began humming the song that they had been dancing to earlier in the evening. Enjolras stared after him, wondering for a moment if a more frustrating person could possibly exist in this world. He hurried to catch up to Grantaire, hands in his pockets, and nudged him companionably. “What did you wish when you threw that rock?” he asked, a little desperately. He had no idea why he wanted to know so badly, what it mattered to him what someone like Grantaire would wish for, but for some reason he really wanted to know.

Still smirking, Grantaire shook his head. “Nope,” he said simply.

“Come on, tell me,” Enjolras pleaded, hoping that he didn’t sound like he was pleading or begging, though judging by the way Grantaire’s smirk widened, he hadn’t succeeded.

Grantaire just shrugged, though something in his grin softened. “If I told you that, it might not come true.”

Enjolras stared at him, trying to find words to say, something to untwist his tongue and say to Grantaire that would make him stop smirking and instead smile at him the way that he had when they were dancing together. “What is it you want Grantaire?” he asked, his voice suddenly quiet. “What do you want? You want the moon?” He gestured to the full moon that hung bright against the dark sky. “Just say the word, and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.” Grantaire laughed and ducked his head, and Enjolras grinned, relaxing slightly now that Grantaire was smiling a genuine smile again. “Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon.”

“I’ll take it,” Grantaire said simply, smiling up at him. “And then what?”

Enjolras’s smile faltered only slightly before he shrugged and said, “Well, then you could swallow it and it’d all dissolve, see? And…and…the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes, and the ends of your hair.” Almost without meaning to, he reached out to touch Grantaire’s curls, then noticed for the first time how close they stood, just a few inches apart. “Am I talking too much?” he asked, feeling suddenly very stupid.

“Yes!” an unfamiliar voice called, and both Enjolras and Grantaire jumped back from each other, turning to stare at the man on his porch, who was leaning against the rail and glaring at them. “Why don’t you kiss him instead of talking him to death?”

Frowning, Enjolras cupped a hand to his good ear. “How’s that?”

Grantaire snorted, his smile strained. “He wants you to kiss me,” he said quietly, while the man on the porch shouted even louder than before, “Why don’t you kiss him instead of talking him to death!”

Enjolras froze for just a moment before he narrowed his eyes at the man. “You want me to kiss him, huh?”

The man snorted and sat back down, waving a dismissive hand at them. “Aw, youth is wasted on the wrong people.”

Enjolras’s glare would have caused most men to quake under its intensity, but the man wasn’t looking at him as Enjolras said in a voice more like a growl than anything, “Now just hold on there, mister. Come back out here and I’ll show you some kissing.” Grantaire had gone very still next to Enjolras, looking simultaneously like he wanted to grin stupidly at what Enjolras was saying and also disappear, never to be seen again. “You come back out here!” Enjolras called again. “Come back out here and—”

Grantaire had started to edge away, realizing too late that Enjolras had once again stepped on his robe, and quickly ran away when it became clear that there was no way that he could recover his robe. Enjolras looked around, confused, having no idea to where Grantaire had disappeared. “Grantaire?” he called, noticing for the first time the robe that lay against the sidewalk. He gulped and dropped the clothes he was holding so that he could pick up the robe, looking stricken. “Um, Grantaire? You seem to have dropped your robe.” He looked around again but saw no sign of the dark-haired man. “Ok, I give up. Where are you?”

The bushes to his left rustled, and in a voice about an octave higher than normal, Grantaire said, “Over here in the hydrangea bush.”

Enjolras instantly brought the robe over to the bush, turning away and blushing even though he couldn’t see anything of Grantaire through the thick branches. “Right. Um. Here you go.”

He set the robe against the branches, and Grantaire’s head popped out, looking equal parts amused and exasperated. “You know, a normal man wouldn’t have been so quick to hand the robe over,” he told Enjolras, who just looked confused.

“Why ever not?” he asked, frowning. “What would I want with your robe?”

Grantaire cleared his throat and laughed slightly. “You, uh, you could try to see me in an…embarrassing situation,” he said delicately, phrasing it in a way that he hoped Enjolras could understand.

Given Enjolras’s deepened frown, he hadn’t understood, though a moment later, his mouth opened in an ‘o’. “Wait, do you mean naked?” he asked, sounding scandalized. “You think I would want to withhold your robe just so that I could force you to reveal yourself?”

Laughing, Grantaire rolled his eyes, leaning against the bush as he raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Like I said, most normal men would want to,” he said simply. “Even if just in a teasing way.”

“You shouldn’t show yourself to anyone you don’t want to,” Enjolras said primly. “And if you think that I would ever try and force you to do something against your consent, you should think again.”

Grantaire just sighed, grabbing the robe off of the bush and tying it around him, stepping around the bush when he had finished. “Never mind, Apollo.”

“Apollo?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Is there a particular reason you’re calling me after a Greek god?”

Laughing slightly bitterly, Grantaire shook his head. “No reason whatsoever,” he said, mostly under his breath. “It’s certainly not because of your unearthly beauty, or because you’re the most unattainable man in town.”

Enjolras, who hadn’t really heard what he said, frowned at him, but didn’t pursue the line of questioning, instead turning to what he deemed other, more important questions. “So now that you’re done with high school, what are you going to do now? You going to go to college?”

Grantaire actually laughed out loud at that, holding his side from how hard he laughed. “Me?” he asked. “Go to college? Why in the world would I want to do that?”

“To get an education?” Enjolras asked, his frown deepening. “Or, heck, just to get out of this little town? Or do you really want to stay around here for your entire life?”

Shrugging, Grantaire looked down at the ground, his expression dark. “Not much for me out there,” he said, his voice rough. “Not that there’s much for me here either, I suppose, but at least I know what to expect here. I know that I’m not meant to do much. I came to terms with that a long time ago.”

Enjolras stared at him, aghast. “What do you mean?” he asked in a strangled voice. “How can you possibly believe that?”

Grantaire gave him a twisted smile. “What the hell else am I supposed to believe? We can’t all go out in the world and change it, Enjolras. Some people are just meant to stay here, go about their quiet lives and keep their heads down and just hope to survive.”

“And that’s  _enough_  for you?” Enjolras asked, frustrated. “You don’t want more than that?”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed up to him, and he shook his head firmly. “It’s not a matter of  _wanting_ ,” he snapped. “It’s not a matter of wanting or wishing or hoping. It’s a matter of coming to terms with the reality of the world as is and being satisfied with that because there’s nothing that I can do about it.”

“You can try,” Enjolras told him, his own eyes flashing as his jaw clenched, angry as much at the words Grantaire was saying as he was the attitude behind them, an attitude that he wanted desperately to change, not just in Grantaire but in others like him. “You can try to get out there and change your circumstances. You can try and make your own world better.” When Grantaire was silent, Enjolras shook his head, his frown turning introspective. “This is exactly what I want to change,” he said, more to himself than to Grantaire. “The world shouldn’t be a place where you have to choose between staying home and going out to make something of yourself. All the opportunities in the world should be yours, should be everyone’s! Even if you’re not sure of what you want to do, you should never be forced to think that you have nothing to contribute to this world. That’s what I want to do, Grantaire, I want to make it so that you don’t feel stuck here, any more than anyone should feel stuck here, and if you do decide to stay, it’s because you want to, because you have a purpose here, not because you don’t have any other option. I want to make a world where people can do the things they love, pursue their passions and dreams, where people believe in themselves, and I want—”

Grantaire reached up, his fingers against Enjolras’s mouth, cutting his tirade off with his gentle, almost reverent touch. “Then change the world,” Grantaire said simply. “Change the world for me so that I don’t have to feel this way. Make me believe the way that you do.”

Enjolras swallowed hard, painfully aware of Grantaire’s fingers against his lips, painfully aware of what that gentle touch was doing to him, perhaps against all better judgment. “Ok,” he said simply, his voice low and rough against the calloused pads of Grantaire’s fingers. “I’ll try.”

Grantaire smiled at him then, a crooked but genuine smile, and Enjolras realized again just how close they were standing, only inches apart again, the cool air seeming somehow charged between them as Grantaire’s hand fell back to his side, something deep and unreadable in his eyes as Enjolras stared at him. Just when Enjolras was about to do something perhaps very stupid – though whether it would have been closing the space between them or backing away, he’d never know – a car horn cut through the night, headlights flashing on them and causing them to once again spring apart. “Enjolras!” Bossuet called, leaning out the side of the car and waving frantically at him. “Enjolras! Come on home, quick! Your father’s had a stroke!”

Enjolras barely even looked at Grantaire as he rushed towards the car where it pulled up next to the curb. He was just about to climb in when he remembered, and turned back, something close to regret flashing across his face. “Grantaire, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

Then he swung into the car, asking urgently, “Did you get a doctor? What did he say?” as the car pulled away.

Grantaire stared after the car for a long time, long after it had disappeared from sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras's speech to the Board of Directors is mostly unaltered because it's this speech that made me want Enjolras as George Bailey so much.
> 
> Also this features referenced unrequited Courfeyrac/Grantaire.

Enjolras sat uncomfortably in his father’s office next to Bossuet, surrounded by the Board of Directors for the Building and Loan, most of whom were giving Enjolras pitying looks as he slowly read over the paper that Mr. Gorbeau, the Building and Loan’s lawyer and executor of his father’s estate, had placed in front of him. Mr. Gorbeau patted him on the shoulder as Enjolras signed the paper. “I think that’s all we’ll need from you, Enjolras. I know you’re anxious to make your train.”

Nodding distractedly, Enjolras looked down one last time at the piece of paper that had essentially signed away the final remnants of his father’s life and everything he had worked for, telling Gorbeau, “I have a taxi waiting downstairs.”

Mr. Gorbeau turned to face the board, his hand still a comforting weight on Enjolras’s shoulder as he said, “I want the Board to know that Enjolras gave up his trip this summer to help straighten things out here these past few months.” He squeezed Enjolras’s shoulder. “Good luck to you at school, Enjolras.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, sure that his voice sounded hollow and detached, the way he felt inside his chest, the way he had felt ever since that day when his father had died, that day when he had walked home with Grantaire…

He shoved that memory from his mind, knowing that it would do more harm than good now, though not even he could squash the sudden flare of regret for what could have been there (especially since only a few weeks later he had learned that Grantaire had gotten a late acceptance into college, which was everything Enjolras wanted for him). Instead, he started gathering his things as Gorbeau told the Board, “Now we come to the real purpose of this meeting – to appoint a successor to our dear friend, Jean Lamaque.”

Enjolras flinched at the words and hastened to gather his things together faster so that he could leave this stifling room, leave the memory of his father, leave everything behind. Mr. Philippe cleared his throat, leaning forward in his throne-like wheelchair. “Mr. Chairman, I’d like to get to my real purpose.”

Discontented murmurs broke out across the table, and one of the other Directors said, “Wait just a minute now!”

“Wait for what?” Philippe asked, waving a dismissive hand. “I claim this institution is not necessary to this town. Therefore, Mr. Chairman, I make a motion to dissolve this institution and turn its assets and liabilities over to the receiver.”

Bossuet stood angrily and nudged Enjolras, indignant. “Enjolras, do you hear what that old buzzard—”

One of the other Directors cut him off. “Mr. Chairman, it’s too soon after Jean Lamarque’s death to discuss chloroforming the Building and Loan.”

“Jean Lamarque died three months ago,” another Director interjected. “I second Mr. Philippe’s motion.”

Mr. Gorbeau sighed heavily and nodded at Bossuet, who was still half-standing, looking enraged. “Very well. In that case, I’ll ask the two executive officers to withdraw.” He stood and gestured for Bossuet and Enjolras to stand as well, though he also clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. “But before you go, I’m sure the whole board wishes to express its deep sorrow at the passing of Jean Lamarque.”

Enjolras nodded jerkily and forced a half-smile onto his face. “Thank you very much,” he told the Directors, who were mostly looking between him and Philippe, who was smiling almost menacingly at Enjolras.

“It was his faith and devotion that were responsible for this organization, and we owe him much,” Mr. Gorbeau finished sadly, starting to lead Enjolras slowly towards the door.

“I’ll go further than that,” Mr. Philippe said, barely contained glee in his voice as he continued smiling at Enjolras, who froze in his step, turning to stare at Philippe. “I’ll say that to the public Jean Lamarque was the Building and Loan.”

More murmurs broke out and Bossuet actually lunged towards Philippe, his hands balled into fists at his side. “Oh, that’s fine, Philippe, coming from you, considering that you were the one who probably drove him to his grave!”

Philippe actually laughed at that, a rough, dry laugh. “Jean Lamarque was not a businessman. That’s what killed him.” Bossuet’s eyes blazed and he started forward, restrained only by Enjolras, who grabbed his arm, while Philippe just waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I don’t mean any disrespect to him, God rest his soul. He was a man of so-called high ideals, but ideals without common sense can ruin this town.” Bending forward, he grabbed a file off the table, opening it and waving the paper within around. “Now, you take this loan here to Bahorel the cabbie…you know, that fellow that sits around all day on his brains in his taxi. You know, I happen to know that the bank turned down this loan, but he comes here and we’re building him a house worth give thousand dollars! Why?”

Enjolras paused, not letting go of Bossuet’s arm, though something flashed within his own eyes before he squashed it down, replaced by the tired, sad look he had worn the past three months. “Well, I handled that, Mr. Philippe. You have all the papers there in that file: his salary, his insurance, and I can personally vouch for his character.”

Sneering, Philippe asked condescendingly, “Oh, a friend of yours?”

Enjolras lifted his chin just slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Philippe snorted and gestured from Enjolras to the rest of the Directors as if this proved his point. “You see, if you shoot pool with some employee here, you can come and borrow money. What does that get us?” He paused as if waiting for someone to answer, then said loudly, pointing at Enjolras to emphasize each word, “A discontented, lazy rabble instead of a thrifty working class. And all because of a few starry-eyed dreamers like Jean Lamarque stirred them up and filled their heads with a lot of impossible ideas. Now, I say—”

“Just a minute,” Enjolras interrupted, his eyes flashing, his shoulder tense, dropping Bossuet’s arm as he strode forward, looking for a moment like the man who had once declared he was going to change the world. “Just a minute. Now hold on, Mr. Philippe.” He paused for just a brief second, aligning his thoughts with his carefully chosen words before continuing, “You’re right when you say my father was no business man. I know that. Why he ever started this penny-ante Building and Loan, I’ll never know.” Taking a deep breath, he clenched and unclenched his fist. “But neither you nor anyone else can say anything against his character, because his whole life was…” He broke off, taking another deep, steadying breath. “In the twenty-five years since he started this thing, he never once thought of himself. Isn’t that right, Bossuet?” Bossuet nodded enthusiastically next to Enjolras, but Enjolras didn’t notice, too deep into his own words to pay attention. “He didn’t save enough money to send me to school, let alone Marius. But he did help more than a few people get out of  _your_  slums, Mr. Philippe, and what’s wrong with that?”

Glancing around the table, seeing that he had most of Directors’ rapt attention, Enjolras gestured around. “Look, you’re all businessmen here. Doesn’t it make them better customers for your businesses? What was it you said just a minute ago, Mr. Philippe? They had to wait and save their money before they even ought to think of a decent home for themselves and their families. Wait? Wait for what?! Until their children grow up and leave them? Until they’re so old and broken down that they—” He broke off, inhaling sharply, trying to curtail his rant before he got off on a tangent from which he could not redeem himself. “Do you know how long it takes a working man to save five thousand dollars for a house?”

Around the table, the businessmen shook their heads, looking uneasy but also intrigued by what Enjolras was saying, and Enjolras pointed at Philippe, his expression fierce. “Just remember this, Mr. Philippe, that this ‘rabble’ you’re talking about, they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community, and they far outnumber your kind. Is it took much to have them work and pay and live in a couple of decent rooms and a bath?” Philippe seemed taken aback by Enjolras’s words, and Enjolras smiled viciously. “Anyway, my father didn’t think so. People were human beings to him, from the most needy to everyone else, but to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they’re cattle. They’re nothing more than a set of numbers in a column. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you’ll ever be!”

Bossuet was beaming at Enjolras as if he had never been more proud, and even some of the Directors looked impressed, glancing at each other. Philippe just snorted and shook his head, though he also avoided Enjolras’s fiery gaze. “I’m not interested in your book. I’m talking about the Building and Loan!”

“I know very well what you’re talking about!” Enjolras snapped, taking another step towards Philippe, and taking victory in the way Philippe flinched. “You’re talking about something you can’t get your hands on, and it’s  _killing_  you. That’s what you’re talking about, I know.”

Enjolras glanced around at the other Directors, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “Well, I’ve said my piece. You…you’re the Board here. You do what you want with this thing.” He paused, straightening and glaring impressively once more. “Just one more thing, though. This town needs this measly one-horse institution if only to have some place where people can come without crawling to Philippe.” He grabbed Bossuet’s arm again and dragged him towards the door, fury in every line of his body. “Come on, Bossuet.”

Together they left the room, Enjolras with a look of almost vengeful wrath on his face, Bossuet beaming and practically ebullient as Enjolras dragged him out. He didn’t notice Philippe staring after him, a look of unadulterated hatred in every wrinkle of his face. Once outside, Enjolras didn’t spare a second glance at the closed door, shoving his papers pell-mell into his bag, though he was visibly shaken and tense.

Bossuet clapped him on his shoulder, practically cackling with glee. “Boy, oh boy, that was telling him, Enjolras! You shut his big mouth.” He slung an arm around Joly’s shoulders, who merely looked exasperatedly at him. “You should have heard him!”

“What happened?” Joly asked, raising an eyebrow at Enjolras, who just shrugged.

“Well, we’re being voted out of business after twenty-five years,” Bossuet said, still grinning. “Ah, well. Easy come, easy go.”

Shaking his head, Joly pulled the newspaper to him and flipped to the classified ads. “Well, here we are. ‘Help Wanted.’”

A knock sounded on the door to the office and all three turned to see Bahorel leaning on the doorframe, frowning at Enjolras, his cabbie’s hat pulled low over one eye. “Hey Enj, do you still want me to hang around?”

Enjolras swore under his breath as he glanced at his watch, and for the first time looked over at the closed office door. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right down,” he told Bahorel distractedly.

Bahorel shrugged and disappeared back downstairs and Bossuet clapped Enjolras on his shoulder. “Hey, you’ll miss you train,” he told Enjolras in an undertone. “You’re a week late for school already. Go on.”

He gave Enjolras a shove towards the front door, but Enjolras stopped, staring back at the door, frustration in his features, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I wonder what’s going on in there…”

“Oh, never mind,” Bossuet said cheerily, giving him another push. “Don’t worry about that. They’re putting us out of business. So what? I can get another job. I’m only twenty-eight!”

Joly snorted. “Twenty-nine,” he corrected absentmindedly as he circled a want ad in the paper.

Bossuet shot Joly a look, but turned his smile back on Enjolras, who didn’t look convinced. “Go on, go,” Bossuet urged. “I mean, look, you already gave up your trip. You don’t want to give up college too, now do you?”

Just as Enjolras was about to respond, his blue eyes troubled, the door burst open and Mr. Gorbeau burst out, beaming wildly at Enjolras and Bossuet as he said excitedly, “Enjolras! Enjolras! They voted Philippe down! They want to keep the Building and Loan going!”

Everyone cheered wildly, and even Enjolras managed his first real smile in weeks as he shook Gorbeau’s hand. Bossuet took his hat off and threw it up in the air, whooping loudly, and Joly laughed excitedly and rubbed Bossuet’s bare head. “But they’ve got on condition,” Gorbeau continued, still grinning. “Only one condition.”

“Well, what’s that?” Enjolras asked.

“That’s the best part of it!” Gorbeau said excitedly to the group at large. “They’ve appointed Enjolras here as executive secretary to take his father’s place!”

Enjolras looked stricken, looking wildly around at Bossuet, who was beaming at him. “Oh, no! But, Bossuet…”

Gorbeau gestured dismissively. “Oh, that’s alright. You can keep him on if you want. As secretary, you can hire anyone you like.”

Shaking his head firmly, Enjolras dropped Gorbeau’s hand, his panicked look settling in to something more determined. “Mr. Gorbeau, let’s get this thing straight. I’m leaving. I’m leaving right now. This…going to school…this is my last chance to do something in this world, to change things. Bossuet here, he’s your man. He can run the Building and Loan.”

Gorbeau shook his head, his smile slipping off of his face. “But, Enjolras, they’ll vote with Philippe if you turn them down.”

(“I know, I know,” Myriel told Joseph, sounding weary. “He didn’t end up going.”

“That’s right,” Jospeh said. “Not only that, but he gave his school money to his adopted brother, Marius, and sent him to college instead. Marius did wonderfully, taught himself a lot of languages, and really dedicated himself to school.”

Myriel said impatiently, “Yes, but what happened to Enjolras?”)

Enjolras stood almost anxiously in the Bedford Falls train station, looking unusually excited as he stared down the track, his arms crossed impatiently in front of his chest. Sitting on a bench next to him, Bossuet looked far more relaxed, whistling cheerfully as they waited.

(“Enjolras got four years older waiting for Marius to come back and take over the Building and Loan, just as they had always promised.”)

Enjolras had unfolded the newspaper, frowning at the headlines. “Look here,” he told Bossuet, who was still whistling. “There are plenty of opportunities to do some good in this world. Just look at the state of Washington! Or heck, anything in the state, even. Lots to be done, and they need good men to do it.”

The train whistle sounded loudly, and Enjolras grinned and nudged Bossuet, suddenly looking more like the enthusiastic young man he had once been. “Thar she blows! You know what the three most exciting sounds in the world are?”

Bossuet frowned slightly and ticked off on his fingers, “Breakfast is served, lunch is served, dinner—”

“No,” Enjolras laughed, jabbing him in the ribs as he tucked the newspaper under his arm. “Anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles.”

As the train drew to a halt, Enjolras and Bossuet hurried over to meet Marius at the carriage door. “There’s the professor now!” Enjolras called, shouldering through the crowd. “Phi Beta Kappa Pontmercy!”

Marius grinned and gave Enjolras a quick, one-armed hug. “Neither of you have changed a bit,” he told Enjolras and Bossuet, beaming at them both.

Enjolras shrugged, still grinning. “Aw, nothing ever really changes around here, you know that.” He threw an arm around Marius’s shoulders. “I am glad to see you.”

He started to pull Marius toward the exit, but Marius paused, looking only slightly abashed. “Oh, wait. Wait a minute.” He turned back to the train and held out his hand, helping a pretty young woman down from the carriage, a woman who smiled tentatively at both Enjolras and Bossuet. “This is Cosette Fauchelevent.”

“Cosette Fauchelevent Pontmercy, if you don’t mind,” Cosette said, grinning at Marius, as Bossuet and Enjolras both stared in shock.

Bossuet threw a confused look at Marius, who just laughed. “Well, I wired you I had a surprise, and here she is. Meet the wife!”

Enjolras was in shock as he slowly shook Cosette’s hand. “Well, what do you know. Wife. Congratulations.” He paused, a grin growing across his face, and pulled Cosette into a hug. “What I am doing! Congratulations to you both!” He slugged Marius with one hand, keeping the other firmly around Cosette’s shoulders. “Marius, why didn’t you say something! What’s a pretty girl like you doing marrying this stupid brother of mine?”

Cosette laughed, a delicate, silvery laugh matched by the almost feral possessive grin she gained Marius, who smiled like a doofus back at her. “Well, it’s purely mercenary, let me tell you. My father offered him a job.”

As Bossuet pulled her out of Enjolras’s embrace to give her a hug, Enjolras seemed to freeze, realizing what Cosette had said. Bossuet just laughed, kissing both her cheeks. “Oh, he gets you  _and_  a job? Well, Marius’s cup runneth over!”

Enjolras tried to keep the look of dread off of his face as he turned back toward Marius, who looked nervous. “Enj, about that job. Cosette spoke out of turn. I never said I’d take it. You’ve been holding things down out here for four years, and…well, I won’t let you down, Enjolras, I promise. I just—”

He paused, seeing a porter walk by with bags and smacked himself in the forehead. “Oh, wait a minute! I forgot the bags. I’ll be right back!”

Marius ran off, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts, a dark look clouding his face. Cosette slipped her arm through Enjolras’s, tugging him towards the exit. “Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras. That’s all Marius seems to talk about, it seems. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Though Enjolras forced a smile back onto his face, his gaze was distant as he asked Cosette quietly, “Cosette this…what’s this that you said about a job?”

“Oh, well, my father owns a factory over in Buffalo. He wants to get Marius started in the research business.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “And it’s a good job?”

Cosette smiled at him. “Oh yes, very. Not much money to start with, but a good future, you know. Marius is a genius at research. My father fell in love with him.”

“And you did, too?” Enjolras asked, managing a small smile.

Cosette nodded, blushing slightly, and Marius rejoined them with the bags, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Enjolras followed them out to the cab waiting to take them home, his expression falling back into despair.

* * *

 

That night, after the party they had thrown for Marius’s return, which had also turned into somewhat of an impromptu wedding reception, Enjolras was out on the porch, trying to clear his head, having imbibed far more than he normally did. He was nothing compared to Bossuet, who stumbled out of the house, grinning like a fiend. “Oh boy, oh boy, I feel so good I could spit in Philippe’s eye!” Bossuet crowed, trying to sling his arm around Enjolras’s shoulder’s and missing, instead pulling him into something of a chokehold. He paused and nodded gravely. “Oh, maybe I’d better go home.” He frowned and blinked around. “Where’s my hat?”

Enjolras hid a grin as he plucked the hat off Bossuet’s hat and presented it to him. Bossuet blinked from the hat to Enjolras and said, “Oh, thank you, Enj! But which one’s mine?”

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Enjolras said patiently, “The middle one”

Bossuet took the hat and jammed it on his head. “Oh, thank you, Enjolras. Now if you’d just point me in the right direction…” Enjolras took his arm and led him down to the sidewalk, sending him down the street. Bossuet staggered directly into the garbage can, falling down with a clatter, but picked himself back up instantly, still grinning despite still also being unsteady on his feet. “’M alright. ‘M alright.”

Leaning against the fence, Enjolras let his forcefully cheerful expression relax, turning contemplative instead, glad to be away from the crowd and the excited chatter inside the house, alone with his thought for the first time all night.

Of course, they wouldn’t leave him alone for long, and he turned when he head his mother come up next to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Hello, Mom,” Enjolras said, smiling in spite of himself.

Mrs. Lamarque ran her fingers through the back of Enjolras’s hair, though she wisely chose not to tell him that he needed a haircut. “So how do you like her?” she asked shrewdly.

Enjolras laughed lightly, turning to look back inside where Joly was dancing with Cosette, who was laughing breathlessly. “Oh, she’s swell. Seems like she can keep Marius on his toes, which is good.” Under his breath, he added, “Or keep him out of Bedford Falls, anyway.”

Mrs. Lamarque hummed understandably and changed the subject smoothly. “Did you know that Grantaire is back from school?” At Enjolras’s inquisitive glance, she nodded. “Came back three days ago.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras grunted noncommittally.

“Nice boy, that Grantaire.”

“Mmm.”

“The kind that will help you find the answers, Enjolras.” His mother nudged him. “Can you give me one good reason why you shouldn’t call on him?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I can give you many,” he said honestly. “We can start with Courfeyrac.”

It was Mrs. Lamarque’s turn to hum noncommittally at him. “Hmmm?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said firmly, trying not to think of the last time he had spoken to Courfeyrac, who had been courting Grantaire for awhile, trying not the think of the way he had wanted to punch Courfeyrac’s face in, which, considering Courfeyrac was one of his closest friends, was a slight problem. “Courfeyrac is crazy about Grantaire. They’ll probably end up married and living right here in Bedford Falls, and good for them.”

Mrs. Lamaraque pursed her lips and shook her head. “Well, Grantaire’s not crazy about Courfeyrac, I can tell you that much.”

Enjolras shot his mother a look, narrowing his eyes. “Well, how do you know? Did you discuss it with him?”

Laughing slightly, she shook her head. “No, of course not. But I’ve got eyes, haven’t I?”

Without even trying to understand what his mother could possibly mean by that, Enjolras shrugged and resumed his previous position of leaning against the fence, muttering moodily, “Not that it matters. I’m sure Grantaire doesn’t like me anyway, not after all this time.”

“Please,” his mother scoffed. “He lights up like a firefly whenever you’re around. Anyone can see that.”

Though Enjolras smiled a little wistfully, he shook his head, nudging his mother gently. “I can see right through you. Trying to get rid of me, are you? Going to foist me off on anyone even partially suitable.”

“That’s right,” she said, kissing his cheek and putting his hat on his head, pulling it down unnecessarily firmly over his curls.

“Well, what’s your hurry?” Enjolras laughed, shifting his hat to a more comfortable position. As he did, he couldn’t help but think of that night with Grantaire, that night that he had tried so hard to forget, not wanting to dwell in the past, in what could never be. Grantaire had gone to college, and Enjolras would be gone soon after all, but still… “All right, Mother, I think I’ll go out and find a boy and do a little passionate necking, what do you say?”

Mrs. Lamarque sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Enjolras.” Still, she looked proud, and pointed Enjolras in the proper direction down the sidewalk, letting Enjolras kiss her once more on the cheek and watching as he walked away, growing more and more determined with each step.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts with one-sided Enjolras/Montparnasse, but ends - finally!! - with Enjolras/Grantaire.

Enjolras’s determination had faltered by the time he got most of the way downtown and his step slowed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and glancing around undecidedly. His heart told him to keep walking, to just head through town and to Grantaire’s house, to knock the door down and kiss him senseless, but his head — the logical part that he couldn’t just turn off — told him otherwise.

Hence the indecision.

He scuffed his shoe against the ground and strolled aimlessly down the sidewalk. Up ahead, he saw a group of excited young men gathered around, all jostling for position around someone. Enjolras assumed that it was one of the many pretty young women in town, but then one of the guys shifted and he almost laughed to himself. Of course. Montparnasse. Enjolras should have known.

Almost despite himself, he drifted towards the group, meeting Montparnasse’s gaze, and Montparnasse grinned almost ferally, brushing through the group of guys as he strolled towards Enjolras. “Excuse me,” he said in a low, silky voice. “I think I’ve got a date. But stick around, fellows, just in case, huh?”

One of the guys, who Enjolras thought might be called Claquesous, squeezed Montparnasse’s waist as he passed. “For you, baby, we’ll wait.”

Montparnasse laughed throatily, his eyes gleaming as he crossed over to where Enjolras had paused. “Hello, Enj.”

“Hello, Parnasse,” Enjolras answered, almost in spite of himself. He looked Montparnasse up and down carefully. He didn’t date by rule, but even he had to admit that there was something attractive about Montparnasse, a dark sort of beauty.

Enjolras had beauty of his own with his gold curls and bright blue eyes, and he had been told that enough times to not consider it vain to acknowledge that about himself as surely as he acknowledged any objective fact. It didn’t help that Montparnasse was currently looking at him as if he was something delicious to eat.

Montparnasse slipped his arm into Enjolras’s and steered him down the street, looking over at him, frowning slightly when he saw that Enjolras was not wearing the look of slavish devotion as Montparnasse’s other admirers. “What gives, Enjolras?” Montparnasse asked, his tone simpering.

Shrugging, Enjolras shook his head, avoiding looking at Montparnasse even as they walked down the street together. “Nothing.”

“Well where are you going?” Montparnasse asked.

Enjolras just shrugged again, his expression dour. “Oh, I’ll probably just end up down at the library,” he said tonelessly.

Montparnasse stopped walking and turned to face Enjolras, his expression sinking into a frown as he looked the other man up and down. “Don’t you ever get tired of just  _reading_  about things?”

It took all of Enjolras’s effort to not actually laugh out loud at the question. Did he ever get tired of just reading about things? Of course he did, cooped up for four years in this crummy little town, dreaming of all the things that he could be doing instead, getting his degree, going out in the world to actually  _change_  things, to do some good. But he had made his choices, and his choices had kept him here, and it was far too late to do anything about that.

And hell, if he was going to be stuck in this crummy little town doing nothing worthwhile, he might as well act the way he was expected to. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked Montparnasse abruptly.

Montparnasse fluttered his eyelashes at Enjolras, feigning surprise at the question. “Who, me? Oh, not a thing.”

Enjolras smiled at him, even though it was an empty smile. “Are you game, then, Parnasse? Shall we make a night of it?”

Smiling widely, Montparnasse told him, “Oh, I’d love it, Enj. Whatever shall we do?”

“Let’s go out in the field and take our shoes off and walk through the grass.”

The words were out of Enjolras’s mouth before he could stop them, and they were far more truthful and honest than he had wanted them to be. From the look on Montparnasse’s face, he was as confused as Enjolras as to where that had sprung from. “Huh?”

Enjolras ignored the question. “Then we can climb up to the falls. It’s beautiful up there in the moonlight, and there’s a green pool up there that we can swim in. We can pretend like we’re somewhere else, anywhere else, and we can climb Mt. Bedford and watch the sunrise. We’ll stay up there all night and everybody will be talking about it. It’ll be a terrific scandal!”

“Have you gone crazy?” Montparnasse asked, his voice suddenly cold. “Walk in the grass in my bare feet? Who even  _does_  that? Besides, it’s ten miles up to Mt. Bedford!”

The light that had flared in Enjolras’s eyes dimmed at Montparnasse’s reaction, and he realized bitterly that he really shouldn’t have expected anything different. Montparnasse, however, was not done, jerking his arm away from Enjolras, angry as much as the situation as anything else. “You think just because you’re you that I’d follow you on some crazy idea? I’m not in this for whatever hare-brained scheme you’re cooking up!”

Enjolras shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, just forget about the whole thing!” he burst, storming away from Montparnasse, not even caring as Montparnasse and the other men he had been with laughed at his retreating back.

Somehow through his fury and frustration he found himself in front of Grantaire’s home, and he slowed in his step to pace in front of the house, debating over whether or not to bother going in. What had happened with Montparnasse had proved to him more than anything that he really couldn’t pretend, couldn’t do this whole pretending to be the kind of person intent on staying in Bedford Falls for all of his life because he  _wasn’t_. One way or another, he would get out of here, he would change the world. And in that case, was it even fair for him to be here, to be calling on Grantaire, knowing that he could never be for Grantaire what he wanted?

He was so lost in his thoughts as he paced back and forth in front of Grantaire’s house that he didn’t even notice as one of the upstairs windows opened and Grantaire leaned out, watching Enjolras with an amused expression on his face. “What are you doing, picketing?”

Enjolras looked up at Grantaire’s call, startled, and paused in his step. “Oh. Hello, Grantaire.” He glanced around as if surprised by where he was. “I, uh, I just happened to be passing by.”

“Yeah, so I noticed,” Grantaire said, a little wryly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the window frame. “So have you made up your mind?”

Scowling, Enjolras asked, “Have I made up my mind about what, exactly?”

Grantaire just gave him a blithe grin. “About coming in. Your mother just phoned and said that you were on your way over to pay me a visit.”

“My  _mother_  called you?” Enjolras repeated, his scowl deepening. “Well, how did she know?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you tell her?”

“I didn’t tell anybody!” Enjolras snapped, frustrated at himself, frustrated at his mother, frustrated at the way the evening had gone, frustrated at his entire existence. “I just went for a walk and happened to be passing by and—”

What excuse he was about to give didn’t matter, since Grantaire had already disappeared from the window. Enjolras shook his head and turned away. “Just went for a walk,” he muttered to himself. “That’s all.”

Inside the house, Grantaire was trying desperately to keep the grin on his face from turning goofy as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were bright, and he looked just as excited as he felt.

He had been in love with Enjolras since…well, since forever. And now Enjolras was here, at his house, presumably…

Well, perhaps it was best that Grantaire didn’t presume much of anything. He had let himself hope, those years ago when Enjolras had held him close, had danced with him, had walked him home. And he didn’t blame Enjolras for distancing himself after his father died; he wouldn’t have expected anything less. Besides, Grantaire had been gone, away at school, despite him telling Enjolras that he wouldn’t be going.

Maybe that’s why Enjolras was here. Maybe, now that he saw that Grantaire was good for something, that Grantaire had made something of himself, then maybe…

Granted, he had only gotten an arts degree, nothing useful, but he had never had grand ambitions anyway. That had always been Enjolras with the fiery passions, and oh, how Grantaire loved him for it.

He spent a moment despairing over the state of his dark curls, but gave it up as a losing battle, hurrying to turn a record on, the same song that they had danced to that night, and quickly grabbed his sketchpad so he could show Enjolras a little thing that he had drawn. He glanced around once more before heading to the door and opening it to invite Enjolras in. “Well are you coming in or aren’t you?”

Enjolras turned to glance at him, still scowling as he picked his way across the front path. “Well, I’ll come in for a minute, but I didn’t tell anyone I was coming over here. Really.”

Once Enjolras was inside, Grantaire leaned past him to close the door, and they ended up standing close together, Grantaire looking up at Enjolras almost nervously as Enjolras stared down at him as if not quite sure what to make of him. “When did you get back?” Enjolras asked carefully.

“Tuesday,” Grantaire said, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt.

Enjolras made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, looking Grantaire up and down. “Where did you get that suit?”

Grantaire’s smile widened. “Do you like it?”

“It’s alright,” Enjolras said with a shrug. He frowned at Grantaire. “I thought you’d go back to New York like Courfeyrac and Prouvaire and the rest of them.”

Now Grantaire’s smile fell slightly. “Well, I went to New York for a couple of vactions, but I don’t know, I guess I was homesick.”

Enjolras snorted. “Homesick? What, for Bedford Falls? Why would you be homesick for a place like this?”

“Well, for my family, too, and…and…everything, I guess,” Grantaire told him, flustered, his face flushing as he bit his lip and looked down. This conversation was not going the way that he had expected or hoped that it would. So he asked, desperately trying to save the evening, “Would you like to sit down?”

For a moment, he thought that Enjolras would refuse, but then he jerked his shoulders in a shrug and followed Grantaire into the living room, muttering as he did, “All right, for a minute, anyway. I still don’t understand it, though. You know I didn’t tell anybody that I was coming here tonight.”

Grantaire bit his lip and looked down. “Would you rather leave?” he asked abruptly, thinking it might be better to forget this entire evening had ever happened.

“No, I don’t want to be rude,” Enjolras said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire gestured impatiently at the sofa. “Well, if you don’t want to be rude, then sit down.”

Enjolras sat, taking his hat off and tossing it onto the coffee table. Grantaire cleared his throat a little nervously and passed the sketchpad to Enjolras, blushing slightly as he told him, “I, uh, I drew this little thing. I don’t know if you remember it…”

The drawing, which was anything but a little thing, instead a full-sized, colored drawing, showed Enjolras throwing a rope around a full moon, with the inscription in Grantaire’s loopy handwriting, “Enjolras Lassos the Moon.”

Enjolras glanced down at the drawing. “Wow,” he said, tracing his fingers lightly over the drawing. “Some joke, huh?” He handed the drawing pack and forced a smile onto his face. “That’s, uh, that’s really good, Grantaire.”

“Thank you.”

Silence fell as Grantaire stowed the sketchpad, and that silence very quickly turned awkward as Grantaire settled back on the couch and looked expectantly at Enjolras, who colored and glanced at his watch. “Right. Well, uh, I…”

Desperately, Grantaire blurted, “What about your brother and his wife? Cosette, wasn’t it? You must be happy for him, and I say good for Pontmercy for finding someone who wanted to date him, let alone marry him, the poor sod. But I bet Cosette’s nice.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah. It’s…I mean, good for Pontmercy.”

“Don’t you like her?” Grantaire asked.

Snorting, Enjolras retorted, “Well, of course I like her! She’s a peach.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, so is it just marriage in general that you’re not enthusiastic about, then?”

“No, marriage is alright for some people,” Enjolras said, shrugging slightly as he shook his head. “It’s alright for Marius, of course, and, and for Jehan, I guess, and for you.”

At that, Grantaire froze in place, staring at Enjolras with undisguised sadness. Just as he was about to say something, though he couldn’t for the life of thing think of what he was going to say, Grantaire’s mother called down the stairs, “Who’s down there with you?”

Grantaire frowned and called, “It’s Enjolras Lamarque, Mother!”

“Enjolras Lamarque?” Grantaire’s mother sounded anything but pleased at that news. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire snapped, glancing back at Enjolras as he asked him, “What do you want?”

Enjolras held his hand up and told Grantaire indignantly, “I don’t want a thing! I just came in because you asked and because—”

“He’s making violent love to me, Mother!” Grantaire called, cackling as Enjolras gave him a horrified look in return.

Grantaire’s mother was not amused, and she shouted back, “You tell him to go on right back home, and don’t you leave the house either. Courfeyrac promised to call you from New York tonight.”

Enjolras was still spluttering over Grantaire’s comment. “But your mother needn’t…I mean I didn’t…I didn’t come here to…to…”

“Well then what did you come here for?” Grantaire snapped, glaring at Enjolras.

Enjolras threw up his hands in frustration, standing up and glaring right back at Grantaire. “I don’t know! Why don’t you tell me? You’re supposed to be the one that has all the answers!”

Grantaire shook his head, hurt written across his face. “Why don’t you just go home?” he snapped, though his voice was quiet.

“That’s where I’m going,” Enjolras snapped, turning to leave. ‘I don’t know why I came here in the first place! Goodnight!”

He headed to the door just as the phone rang, and Grantaire’s mother called from upstairs, “Courfeyrac’s on the telephone!”

Grantaire snapped at Enjolras, “Goodnight, then,” as he grabbed the downstairs extension, saying into the phone in as simpering a tone as he could muster, just to piss Enjolras off, “Well, hee-haw, Courfeyrac, how are you?”

Enjolras froze in the doorway for a moment before leaving, slamming the door after him. Courfeyrac told Grantaire enthusiastically, “Aw, great. It’s good to hear your voice again.”

The door slammed opened again as Enjolras stormed back in, telling Grantaire crisply, “I forgot my hat.”

“Oh, well, that’s awfully sweet of you, Courf,” Grantaire said, his tone still simpering, though he glared at Enjolras as he spoke. “There’s an old friend of yours here. Enjolras Lamarque.”

Enjolras shook his head emphatically, wanting no part in this, just as Courfeyrac said excitedly, “You mean old moss-back Enjolras? Hee-haw, put him on!”

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras. “He wants to talk to you,” he said quietly.

From upstairs, Grantaire’s mother shouted, “He doesn’t want to talk to Enjolras, you idiot! He wants to talk to you!”

“He does so want to talk to Enjolras,” Grantaire said crossly. “He asked for him.” He turned back to Enjolras and tentatively offered the phone. “Enj…Courfeyrac wants to speak to you.”

Enjolras stepped closer, accepting the phone from Grantaire’s now trembling fingers. “Hello, Courf.”

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac’s voice was as enthusiastic as Enjolras remembered, and he clutched the mouthpiece and closed his eyes. “Hey, what a fine pal you are. What’re you trying to do? Steal my man?”

Enjolras’s eyes snapped open and he looked straight at Grantaire, who was staring back at him. “What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, harshly. “Nobody’s trying to steal anything. Here’s…here’s Grantaire.”

He started to hand the phone back to Grantaire, whose face fell, but Courfeyrac practically shouted over the phone, “No, wait a minute! Wait a minute.” Enjolras brought the phone back up to his ear, his expression stony. “I want to talk to both of you. Tell Grantaire to get on the extension.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras tried to hand the phone back to Grantaire, who told him, a little blankly, “Mother’s on the upstairs extension.” Enjolras’s expression didn’t change, and Grantaire said quickly, “We can both hear. Come here.”

He took the telephone from Enjolras and held it between them, pulling Enjolras close, their cheeks touching from the necessity of standing close enough to each other to hear from the phone. Both Enjolras and Grantaire were blushing furiously as Grantaire told Courfeyrac in a strange-sounding voice, “We’re listening, Courf.”

“I have a big deal coming up that’s going to make us all rich,” Courfeyrac told them, still ebullient and excited, not being privy to the tension that was radiating between Grantaire and Enjolras as they both listened to him talk. “Enj, you remember that night in Feuilly’s bar when you told me you read some article someplace about making plastics out of soybeans?”

Enjolras was paying far more attention to the feel of Grantaire’s scruff against his own smooth cheek to pay much attention to what Courfeyrac was saying. “Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Soybeans. Right. Yeah, I remember.”

Courfeyrac told them, “Well, Dad’s snapped up the idea. He’s going to build a factory to do just that outside of Rochester. What do you think of that idea?”

Grantaire was looking up at Enjolras, clearly also paying little to no attention to what Courfeyrac was saying, paying far closer attention to Enjolras’s reactions, which only caused Enjolras to blush deeper. “Rochester?” Enjolras repeated, his voice hoarse. “Well, why in Rochester?”

“Why not?” Courfeyrac asked cheerfully. “Can you think of anything better?”

Enjolras was still staring at Grantaire, trying to decide when Grantaire’s eyes had turned that particular shade of blue. “Oh, I don’t know…” Enjolras said slowly. “Why not here in Bedford Falls? You remember that old tool and machinery works right outside of town? You can tell your dad that he can get it for a song, and all the labor he wants, too. Half the town was thrown out of work when they closed down.”

Courfeyrac sounded intrigued as he answered, “Is that so? Well, I’ll tell him that. In fact, that sounds great!” He sounded even more enthusiastic than before, but Enjolras and Grantaire were still looking at each other. “Oh, baby, I knew you’d come through! Anyway, here’s the point. Oh, Grantaire, you’re in on this, too. Now listen. Have you got any money?”

“Money?” Enjolras repeated. “Yeah…well, a little, anyway.”

“Well, now, listen.” Courfeyrac’s tone turned brisk. “I want you to put every cent you’ve got into our stock. And Enj, I may have a job for you, if you’re not still married to that broken-down Building and Loan. This is the biggest thing since radio, and I’m letting you in on the ground floor. Oh, Grantaire—”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Courfeyrac said, “Would you tell this guy that I’m giving him the chance of a lifetime? The chance of a lifetime.”

Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras, their lips almost brushing from how close their faces were, and he whispered hoarsely, “He says it’s the chance of a lifetime.”

Enjolras couldn’t stand it anymore, every frustration he was feeling coming a head, and he dropped the phone, grabbing Grantaire by the shoulders. “Now you listen to me,” he snarled, his voice fierce, his eyes burning. “I don’t want any plastics! I don’t want to let in on any ground floors, and I don’t want to get married to anyone, ever! Do you understand that? I want to get out of this town, I want to leave everything here behind, and you — you…”

He couldn’t finish what he was saying, instead closing the space between him and Grantaire and kissing him fiercely. Grantaire froze for a moment against him, then melted into his embrace, kissing him back, curling his fingers into Enjolras’s hair with one hand and wrapping his other arm around Enjolras’s waist. The kiss deepened as both gave in to the feelings that they had been harboring for the past few years, breathing each other in and finally giving in to what each had been denying for far, far too long.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hello, Mr. Lamarque,” Grantaire said, beaming up at Enjolras as he wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s waist, pulling him close and tilting his head up to kiss him.

Enjolras grinned and kissed him back, grabbing the lapels of Grantaire’s tuxedo as he deepened the kiss. “And hello to you, too, Mr. Lamarque,” he said with a smirk.

Grantaire laughed, an easy, joyous laugh, the kind that made Enjolras smile just by hearing it, and shook his head slightly, his eyes sparkling as he grinned at Enjolras. “You know, I don’t know if I’m ever going to get used to hearing that.”

“And I won’t ever get used to doing this,” Enjolras murmured, kissing Grantaire again, a fierce, open-mouthed kiss that left both men panting heavily as they held on to each other.

A knock at the door was the only thing that broke them apart, and Enjolras’s mother stuck her head into the room, frowning slightly at them. “You’re going to miss your train if you don’t hurry,” she scolded.

Enjolras smiled at her and then back at Grantaire, lacing their fingers together. “Well, we wouldn’t want to miss our honeymoon, now would we?” He tugged Grantaire towards the door, pausing to kiss his mother on the cheek.

She smiled, her eyes a little watery, and reached up to pat first Enjolras’s cheek then Grantaire’s as he went by. “Oh, first Marius, now you. I’m just an old maid now.”

“Oh, never, Mrs. Lamarque,” Grantaire told her earnestly, giving her his most winning smile. “You’re as beautiful as ever, and not a day over 30, I swear.”

Mrs. Lamarque laughed loudly and kissed Grantaire’s cheek. “I always knew you picked a winner,” she told Enjolras, smiling at Grantaire. “And I’m pretty sure you’ve earned the right to call me ‘Mom’.”

Enjolras grinned a little stupidly before checking his watch. “Shoot. He can call you whatever he likes because if we don’t hurry, they’re going to call us late for our train. Come on, Grantaire.”

They thundered down the stairs and through the pouring rain outside to the waiting cab, laughing loudly and kissing each other once they were in the backseat of the car. Bahorel cleared his throat loudly. “If either of you notice someone sitting in the front seat, don’t worry, it’s just me.”

Enjolras looked up as Grantaire kissed his neck. “Oh, hey, look! Somebody’s actually driving this cab.”

Bahorel just laughed and shook his head, passing a bottle of champagne over the seat back, which Grantaire grabbed almost greedily. “Combeferre sent this over. He said to float away to Happy Land on the bubbles.”

“Mmm, champagne,” Grantaire said happily.

Enjolras grinned and kissed Grantaire’s temple. “Good old Combeferre.”

Bahorel pulled away from the curb. “By the way, where are you two going on this here honeymoon now?”

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asked, smirking as he pulled a wad of cash from his jacket pocket. “Well, look at this. There’s the kitty, Bahorel. Here, come on, count it, Grantaire.”

Grantaire obediently took the rolls of bills and waved it around, laughing. “I feel like a bootlegger’s husband. Just look at all this cash!”

Enjolras felt like his grin was going to become permanent. “You know what we’re going to do? We’re going to shoot the works. A whole week in New York, a whole week in Paris. The highest hotels, the oldest champagne, the richest caviar, the hottest music, and, of course, the most handsome husband.”

He ended his spiel by pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s lips, smiling against them as he did. “That does it!” Bahorel said, chuckling. “Then what?”

Enjolras glanced over at Grantaire. “Well, you heard the man. Then what?”

Grantaire looked up at him and shrugged. “After that, who cares?”

Laughing, Enjolras bent down to kiss him soundly, telling him softly, “Excellent answer.”

They kissed for a long moment after that as Bahorel just rolled his eyes. The cab slowed as they drove past the bank, and he glanced over, surprised. There were crowds of people under their umbrellas, swarming around the bank door, as the bank attendants tried to close down. Many even came running past the cab. Bahorel frowned and glanced in the rearview mirror at Enjolras. “Don’t look now, but there’s something funny going on at the bank, Enj. I’ve never really seen one, but that’s got all the earmarks of a run.”

Enjolras pulled away from Grantaire to glance around, frowning. One of the passerbys knocked on the window of the cab. “Hey, Bahorel, if you’ve got any money in the bank, you better hurry!”

That was enough to truly worry Enjolras, who leaned out of the window, glancing down at the Building and Loan. Grantaire frowned and tugged on Enjolras’s jacket sleeve. “Please, let’s not stop,” he said quietly.

Enjolras shook his head, his brow furrowed, and he turned to drop a quick kiss to Grantaire’s lips. “I’ll be back in a minute. I promise.”

He got out of the cab and jogged down the street to where another crowd of people was gathered around the building and loan, which had the iron grill bolted in front of the door. Enjolras forced a smile on his face as he saw the panic and fear running rampant through the crowd. “Hello, everyone,” he said, as cheerfully as he possibly could. “What’s the matter here? Can’t you get in?”

No one answered, looking at him almost guiltily, but with a steely resolve in their silence. Enjolras swallowed and unlocked the iron grill, pushing it open and letting the crowd inside as he climbed the stairs into the office.

Bossuet looked around wildly as Enjolras came in, staring in almost horror at the crowd that followed him, and he beckoned Enjolras over to him quickly. Enjolras strode over and asked in an undertone, “What is this, Bossuet? A holiday?”

“Enjolras…” Bossuet croaked, gesturing towards Enjolras’s office.

Enjolras forced the smile back on his face as he turned to face the still silent and ominous crowd. “Come on in, everybody,” he said loudly. “That’s it, come on in. Why don’t you all sit down. There’s a lot of seats here. Just make yourselves comfortable while we have a little chat here.”

No one sat down, their faces impassive, bordering on dangerous as they stared back at him. “Enjolras, can I see you a minute?” Bossuet hissed, holding the door to Enjolras’s office open.

Hurrying into the office, Enjolras asked, almost angrily, “What’s going on? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I just did!” Bossuet said, his voice urgent. “They said you’d already left. This is a pickle, Enj, this is a real pickle.”

Enjolras sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Well, what happened? How did it start?”

Bossuet threw his hands up, frustrated. “How does anything like this ever start? All I know is that the bank called our loan.”

Enjolras went very still at that, his eyes narrowing as he calculated out the ramifications that could have on the Building and Loan. “When?” he asked, his voice frosty.

Shrugging, Bossuet said desperately, “About an hour ago. I had to hand over all of our cash.”

“All of it?” Enjolras echoed, his expression turning horrified.

Bossuet nodded. “Every cent of it, and it was still less than what we owe.”

Enjolras sank into his chair, all of the color drained from his face. “Holy mackerel,” he muttered, running his hands roughly through his hair.

“And then I got scared, Enj, and closed the doors, and I…I…”

“The whole town’s gone crazy,” Enjolras told Bossuet in a low voice. “You should have seen them over at the bank. The whole  _world_  has gone mad.”

The telephone rang loudly, causing both men to jump and stare at it. After another ring, Bossuet picked it up with trembling fingers. “Yes, hello?” He glanced at Enjolras, his eyes widening with fear, and he hissed, “It’s Philippe.”

Enjolras grabbed the phone from Bossuet’s hand. “Hello?”

“Enjolras.” Philippe’s voice was calm, relaxed even, the total opposite to Enjolras and Bossuet at the moment. “There is a rumor around town that you’ve closed your doors. Is that true? If so, well, I’m very glad to hear that, but are you all right? Do you need any police?”

Enjolras frowned. “Police? What for?”

Philippe chuckled as if he was enjoying what was happening. “Well, mobs can get pretty ugly sometimes. You know how people can be, how the wretched of the earth can act, the little people of this town. I’m just going all out to help in this crisis. I’ve personally guaranteed the bank sufficient funds to meet their needs. They’ll close up for a week, and then reopen.”

Enjolras’s grip on the phone tightened, and he hissed at Bossuet, “He just took over the bank.”

“I may lose a fortune,” Philippe continued, his tone still somewhat gleeful. “but I’m willing to guarantee your people, too. Just tell them to bring their Building and Loan shares over here and I’ll buy them out for fifty cents on the dollar.”

Now Enjolras’s grip was so tight on the phone that his knuckles were white. “Never miss a trick, do you, Philippe?” he snarled. “Well, you’re going to miss this one!”

“If you close your doors before six p.m., you will never reopen,” Philippe threatened. “Do you hear me? You will—”

Enjolras slammed the phone receiver down before Philippe could finish and turned to glare at Bossuet, who shrugged back at him, anxiety written all over his face.

“Was it a nice wedding?” Bossuet asked, his voice strained. “Gosh, I wanted to be there, Enj, you know I did, but…”

Barely managing a small smile in spite of everything, Enjolras nodded. “Yeah, it was a great wedding.” He looked down at the string tied around Bossuet’s finger and pointed to the one on his ring finger. “You can take that one off now.”

A sudden outcry of angry voices came from the other room, and Enjolras and Bossuet glanced at each other, their brief moment of happiness completely disappearing. Enjolras strode back outside, looking at the crowd gathered around the teller’s window, which quieted at his reappearance. “Now, look,” Enjolras said cautiously, “things aren’t as black as they may seem.” When no one said anything, he said, a little hesitantly, “I have some news for you, folks. I’ve just talked to old man Philippe, and he’s guaranteed cash payments at the bank, which will reopen next week.”

The crowd glanced around at each other and one of the men cleared his throat. “But Enjolras, I’ve got my money here. Did he guarantee this place?”

Enjolras took a deep breath and shook his head, frowning. “Well, no, Charlie. I didn’t even ask him to. We don’t need Philippe over here.”

As he spoke, he saw Grantaire and Bahorel edge into the room, Grantaire’s expression concerned as he watched Enjolras. Charlie, the man who had spoken previously, shook his head. “I’ll take my money now.”

“No, but…” Enjolras hesitated, trying to figure out how to word it without sounding as desperate as he felt. “You’re thinking of this place all wrong, as if I had all the money back in a safe. The money’s not there. Your money is in Joe’s house, right next to yours.” He pointed to Joe in the crowd, and to the woman next to him. “And in the Kennedy house. And Mrs. Macklin’s house, and a hundred others. Your money is lent to them to build their houses, and then they pay it back to you as best they can. What do you want to do, foreclose on them?”

Another man spoke up, his tone firm. “I’ve got two hundred and forty-two dollars in here, and two hundred and forty-two dollars isn’t going to break anything.”

Enjolras took a deep breath and forced the smile back on to his face. “Alright, Tom. You can sign this slip here and you’ll get your money in sixty days.”

He slid a piece of paper across the counter to Tom, who looked at it with a disgusted look. “Sixty days?” he repeated, incredulous.

Shrugging, Enjolras met his gaze steadily. “That’s what you agreed to when you bought your shares here.”

Discontented murmurs broke out through the crowd, exasperated by someone else pushing through the crowd, asking Tom loudly, “Did you get your money, Tom? Because I did! Old man Philippe’ll pay fifty cents on the dollar for every share you’ve got!”

To prove his point, he pulled a bunch of bills from his pocket and flashed them around. “Fifty cents on the dollar, in cash?” Tom said, turning to look at Enjolras. “Well, what do you say to that?”

Enjolras shrugged helplessly. “Tom, you have to stick to your original agreement. You’ve got to give us sixty days on this.”

Tom shrugged and turned to the other man. “Okay, let’s go. Better to get half than nothing.”

A brief moment of panic spread across Enjolras’s face, and he vaulted over the counter to hold his hands up, trying to reason with the crowd. “Now wait, listen to me for a moment. I beg of you — please don’t do this thing. If Philippe gets ahold of the Building and Loan, there will never be another decent house built in this town.” He paused, letting that sink in for a moment before adding, “He’s already in charge of the bank. He’s got the bus line. He’s got the department stories, and now he’s after us. Why? Well, it’s simple. Because we’re cutting in on his business, that’s why. His business is to keep you living in his slums and paying the kind of rent he decides, all to try and keep you in what he deems your proper place. Don’t you think you deserve better than that?”

Enjolras’s words had halted most of the crowd, even though a few were pressing to get out. Enjolras took a deep breath before continuing, gesturing at one of the guys in the crowd. “Joe, you lived in one of his houses, didn’t you? Well, have you forgotten what he charged you for that broken-down shack? And Ed — you know, you remember last year when things weren’t going so well, and you couldn’t make your payments? You didn’t lose your house, did you? Do you think Philippe would have let you keep it?”

Ed and Joe glanced at each other and shrugged, recognizing the truth in Enjolras’s words, and Enjolras took another deep breath before addressing the crowd at large. “Can’t you all see what’s happening here? Philippe’s not selling, he’s  _buying_. And why? Because we’re panicking and he’s not. He’s picking up some bargains by buying your shares. But we can get through this if we stick together. We’ve got to have faith in each other, in our fellow man.”

“But my husband hasn’t working in over a year, and I need money!” a women from the crowd piped up, joined by other murmurs of agreements, another woman crying out, “How am I going to live until the bank opens? I can’t feed my kids on faith!”

Another man nodded and added loudly, “I’ve got doctors bills to pay! I need cash!”

The murmurs of agreement grew louder until, from his position near the door, Grantaire cleared his throat and shouted out, “How much do you need?”

In his hand he held the wad of wedding present money that he and Enjolras had received, and Enjolras looked at him as if he had never been as love with him as he was in that moment. “Hey, that’s right! I’ve got two thousand dollars!” He plucked the bills out of Grantaire’s hand, kissed him on the cheek, and turned back to the crowd. “Here’s two thousand dollars. This’ll tide us over until the bank reopens.” He turned to Tom, who was still standing at the edge of the room. “All right, Tom, how much do you need?”

“Two hundred and forty-two dollars,” Tom said stubbornly.

Enjolras thought he might cry. “C’mon, Tom, just enough to tide you over until the bank reopens.”

Tom shook his head. “I’ll take two hundred and forty-two dollars.”

Shaking his head as well, Enjolras quickly counted out the money and handed it to Tom, who nodded at him. “That’ll close my account.”

“Your account’s still here. That’s a loan.” Enjolras turned to the next person in line. “All right, Ed?”

Ed bit his lip, clearly torn. “I’ve got three hundred dollars here, Enjolras.”

Enjolras took a steadying breath. “I know, Ed. But what’ll it take til the bank reopens? What do you really need right now?”

After a long moment, Ed said slowly, “Well, I suppose twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars,” Enjolras said, relieved. “Now you’re talking. Here you go. Thanks, Ed. And Mrs. Thompson, how much for you?”

Mrs. Thompson shook her head, clearly not as comfortable with this as some of the people. “But it’s your own money!”

Enjolras shook his head. “Never mind about that,” he said impatiently. “How much do you want?”

“I can get along with twenty,” she said hesitantly. “And I’ll sign a paper.”

Shaking his head again, Enjolras flashed her a genuine, if tense, smile. “You don’t have to sign anything. I know you’ll pay it back when you can. That’s ok.” He took another breath before turning to the next person, struggling to keep the smile in place on his face.

* * *

 

They carried on like that all afternoon, until every last person had been helped. Enjolras and Bossuet looked nervously up at the clock, watching as the minute hand slowly crept forward. Enjolras counted off the seconds, glancing at Joly, who was at the door, ready to close it. “Six…five…four…three…two…one…Bingo!”

Joly slammed the door closed and locked it before scurrying around to rejoin the others. Enjolras beamed and held two dollar bills up. “Look at this! Not only did we make it, but we’re still in business! We’ve got two dollars left!”

Bossuet gulped and bent to grab a bottle of whiskey from Joly’s desk. “Let’s have some of this,” he said hoarsely. “Grab some glasses, Joly. We’re a couple of financial wizards!”

Enjolras took the glass offered to him and raised it for a toast. “A toast! To Papa Dollar and Mama Dollar, and if you want the Building and Loan to stay in business, you better have a family real quick!”

“I wish they were rabbits,” Joly muttered, taking the dollars from Enjolras and locking them in the safe.

Sighing, Enjolras drained his glass. “I wish they were, too.” He patted his breast pocket and pulled out a packet of cigars. “Wedding cigars!” he said, starting to pass them around, then froze. “Wedding…oh my God, I’m married. Where’s Grantaire? Grantaire?” He looked around wildly. “Oh, Lord, I’ve got a train to catch.” He looked down at his watch. “Well, the train’s gone. I wonder if Bahorel’s still waiting outside with the taxicab?”

The phone rang and Joly picked it up. “Building and Loan.” He glanced at Enjolras. “There’s a call for you.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Look, just get my husband on the phone, would you. He’s probably over at his mother’s.”

“Mr. Lamarque is on the phone for you,” Joly said patiently.

Shaking his head again, Enjolras snapped, “I don’t want Mr. Lamarque, I want my husband. Oh — Mr. Lamarque! That is my husband! Here, I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone and truly relaxed for the first time all afternoon when he heard Grantaire’s voice on the other end. “Grantaire. Listen, I’m sorry…What? Come home? Well, I’ll come home, but what home? Three-twenty sycamore street? Well, whose home is that?”

* * *

 

Enjolras stood outside in the pouring rain staring up at the old Granville house, looking as dilapidated and run-down as ever. He hurried inside the empty house and into the parlor, where Grantaire stood in front of a cheerful fireplace the bottle of champagne in his hand, a mattress on the ground with both Enjolras and Grantaire’s pajamas laid out over it. “Welcome home, Mr. Lamarque.”

Enjolras rushed to Grantaire and kissed him deeply. “How did you…?”

“Remember that night when we broke the windows in those old house?” Grantaire asked breathlessly. “This is what I wished for.”

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Enjolras cupped Grantaire’s cheek and kissed him again. “You’re wonderful, do you know that? And I’ll get us real furniture for this place, and I’ll make up for us missing our honeymoon, I promise you that. And get the two thousand dollars back.”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Grantaire sighed, chuckling slightly. “I don’t care about any of that. As long as I have you, I’m happy.”

Enjolras kissed him again. “And as long as I have you, I am the happiest, richest man on earth. And now I’m going to make good on my promises and make violent love to you.”

He pulled Grantaire down on to the bed and Grantaire laughed and kissed him. “Deal.”


	7. Chapter 7

A truck laden with furniture was parked outside a ramshackle house, the Lamarque’s rickety car parked in front of it. Neighbors were gathered around, helping carry furniture and boxes outside the house and putting them into the truck and the car. Once the last of the furniture was inside the truck and everyone had emerged, one of the neighbors asked, “Feuilly, you rented a new house?”

 “Rent?” Feuilly repeated, turning to Enjolras, a wide grin spreading across his face as he tugged his wife to his side. “Did you hear what he said?”

Enjolras grinned as well, happy to indulge him on this day especially. “What’s that?”

Feuilly’s grin was enough to light every single house on the block. “I own the house. Me, Feuilly. I own my own house. No more do we live like pigs in Philippe’s Park.” He pressed a kiss into his wife’s hair. “Now hurry, Marie.”

Calling to Grantaire, Enjolras said loudly, “Come on, bring the baby, I’ll get the kids into the car.”

Grantaire walked slowly out of the house, Feuilly’s baby asleep in his arms, smiling at all of them. Feuilly’s other kids piled out and into the backseat of the Lamarque’s car. As Feuilly’s wife reached out to take the baby from Grantaire’s arms, Feuilly said to Enjolras in a low voice, “Oh, thank you, Enjolras. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me,” Enjolras said quickly, his ears red, though he was still smiling. “Just, uh, just help me wrangle the goat into the back of the truck.”

Once the goat was appropriately wrangled, and Grantaire was settled into the car with Feuilly’s children, and Feuilly and his wife were settled into the truck, Enjolras finally slid into the front seat of the car. Feuilly leaned out the truck window, waving at his neighbors. “Goodbye, everyone! Goodbye!”

The rickety caravan took off down the street, driving across town until they passed a handsome wooden sign that stood at the front of a growing neighborhood, proudly proclaiming in carefully drawn letters, “Lamarque Field.” They pulled up in front of a newly built house, one of several on the block, and the process began again but in the opposite, wrangling children (and goats) while carrying furniture and belongings inside.

Finally, Enjolras and Grantaire stood on the front porch of the house with Feuilly, Marie and their brood of children lined up in front of them, all beaming at him. “Feuilly, Marie, welcome home.”

As Feuilly and Marie crossed themselves, across the street, a sleek, black town car pulled up, and Enjolras shot a look at it, surprised when who but Courfeyrac should step outside, grinning at him and wearing a pristine suit. He was joined by an attractive woman who was practically dripping in furs and jewels. Courfeyrac slung an arm around her shoulders and nodded at Enjolras. “That old Enj…he’s always making a speech.” He waved to Enjolras and shouted, “Hee-haw!”

On the porch, Enjolras’s face had darkened at seeing Courfeyrac. “Look, it’s Courf,” he said to Grantaire in undertones.

Grantaire glanced up at him, his own smile faltering briefly. “Who cares,” he said, lightly, trying to get Enjolras to smile again. Then he cleared his throat loudly and handed Marie a loaf of bread. “Bread, that this house may never know hunger.” Marie accepted the bread and crossed herself. “Salt, that life may always have flavor.” Marie again took the salt and crossed herself.

“And wine!” Enjolras chimed in, winking at Grantaire, who just laughed — Enjolras had earlier joked that he would handle the wine, for fear Grantaire would drink it before they even got to Feuilly’s — and handing the bottle to Feuilly. “That joy and prosperity may reign forever. Enter the Feuilly castle!”

After crossing themselves once more, Feuilly and Marie shook hands all around, laughing and kissing everyone’s cheeks as the kids raced around, screaming delightedly. Enjolras reached out and took Grantaire’s hand, squeezing it gently.

* * *

 

Across town, there was one man who was not feeling mirth at Feuilly’s new living situation. Mr. Philippe sat in his wheelchair, frowning across his desk at one of his rent collectors, who was shaking his head as he gestured at a map spread across the desk. “Look, Mr. Philippe, it’s no skin off my nose. I’m just your rent collector. But look, you can’t laugh off this Lamarque Field anymore. Look at it.”

As he began gesturing to places on the map, the buzzer on Philippe’s desk sounded, and Philippe pushed the button for it, his scowl deepening as his secretary told him, “Congressman Blatz is here to see you.”

“Oh, tell the congressman to wait,” Philippe snapped, turning back to his rent collector, who was looking at him expectantly. “Go on.”

The rent collector nodded and pointed back at the map. “Fifteen years ago, a half-dozen houses stuck here and there. There’s the old cemetery, squirrels, buttercups, daisies. Heck, I used to hunt rabbits there myself. Look at it today. Dozens of the prettiest little homes you ever saw, ninety percent of which are owned by suckers who used to pay rent to you. Your Philippe’s Park is becoming just that, my dear Employer. And the local yokels are making wisecracks about David and Goliath!”

Philippe scowled contemplatively, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, they are, are they? Even though they know the Lamarques haven’t made a dime out of it?”

Snorting dismissively, the rent collector scoffed, “You know very well why. The Lamarques were all chumps. Every one of those homes is worth twice what it cost the Building and Loan to build. If I were you, Mr. Philippe—”

“Well, you are not me!” Philippe snapped, unable to contain his temper.

The rent collector shrugged unconcernedly and began gathering up the map. “As I say, it’s no skin off my nose. But one of these days this bright young man is going to end up asking Enjolras Lamarque for a job if this continues.”

With that, he left, leaving Philippe with his right hand man, who had been there the entire time, listening. “The Lamarque family has been a pain in my neck for long enough.” He hit the button on his dictaphone, ordering his secretary, “Come in here. We have work to do.”

* * *

 

Since Feuilly and his family had settled into their home, Enjolras and Grantaire crossed the street to where Courfeyrac was still waiting in front of his car. “We just stopped in town to take a look at the next factory,” Courfeyrac told them breezily, with a winning smile. “Then we’re going to drive on down to Florida.”

The woman, who had been introduced as his wife, Jeanne, smiled at them as well, and nudged Courfeyrac in the ribs. “Why don’t you have your friends join us?”

“Oh, hey, sure!” Courfeyrac said, grinning at both Enjolras and Grantaire, who looked uneasy. “Hey, why don’t you kids drive on down with us, huh?”  
  
Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire’s hand tightened. “Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t get away from work, Courf.”

“Still got the nose to the old grindstone, eh?” Courfeyrac asked, his grin widening. “Jeanne, I offered to let George in on the ground floor in plastics, and he turned me down flat!”

Enjolras smiled awkwardly, and Grantaire touched his back in a comforting gesture that neither Courfeyrac nor his wife could see. “Oh, now, no need to rub it in.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “I’m not rubbing it in.” He checked his watch. “Well, I guess we better run along.”

He shook first Enjolras’s hand and then Grantaire’s, pulling Grantaire in to kiss his cheek. Jeanne also shook Enjolras’s hand and kissed Grantaire’s cheek. “Awfully nice to have met you, Grantaire. Courfeyrac’s said so much about you, and your husband.”

“It was nice meeting you, too,” Grantaire said politely, well aware of Enjolras’s death grip on his hand.

They finishing saying their goodbyes and stepped back, waving as Courfeyrac pulled away, hollering out the window, “Hee-haw!”

Grantaire slipped his arm around Enjolras’s waist and Enjolras distractedly turned and kissed his temple. Together they walked across to their waiting car, which after the limousine Courfeyrac had pulled up in, looked particularly shabby. As if guessing Enjolras’s thoughts, which given the cloudy look on his face, was not difficult, Grantaire pushed Enjolras against the hood of his car and kissed him soundly. Enjolras kissed him back, but the cloudy look did not lift from his face, and Grantaire sighed. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

Enjolras sat stiffly in the chair on the other side of Mr. Philippe’s desk, his hands clenched against his legs as Philippe regarded him with something of a smirk on his face. He cleared his throat and hoped he didn’t sound nervous as he told Philippe, “Well, I – I suppose I’ll find out sooner of later, but just what exactly did you want to see me about?”

Philippe laughed and leaned forward, his smirk only growing in size and viciousness. “Ah, Enjolras, that’s what I like so much about you. Always to the point with you. None of this beating around the bush.” He paused, regarding Enjolras for a long moment. “Enjolras, I’m an old man, and most people hate me. Of course, I don’t like them either, so that makes it all even. You know just as well as I do that I run practically everything in this town but the Lamarque Building and Loan. You know, also, that for a number of years, I’ve been trying to get control of it…” He trailed off, his eyes turning cold. “Or kill it. But I haven’t been able to do it.”

Enjolras’s back straightened and he couldn’t help the small, proud smile that crossed his face at that as he met Philippe’s gaze squarely. Philippe’s expression soured. “Yes, you have been stopping me. In fact, you have beaten me, Enjolras, and as anyone in this country can tell you, that takes some doing. Take during the Depression, for instance. You and I were the only ones that kept our heads. You saved the Building and Loan, and I…well, I saved all the rest.”

“Most people say you stole all the rest,” Enjolras said evenly, but Philippe just laughed.

“The envious ones say that. The suckers. Now, I have stated my side very frankly, so let’s look at your side. A young man, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, married, making, say, forty a week.”

Enjolras cheeks burned and he spat indignantly, “Forty-five.”

Philippe chuckled condescendingly. “Oh, I am sorry. Forty-five. Out of which, after supporting your mother and paying your bills, you’re able to keep, say, ten, if you skimp. And I am sure you skimp.” He glanced up and down Enjolras as if his clothes proved the very point, and Enjolras’s blush deepened. “A child or two comes along, and you won’t even be able to save the ten. Now, if this young man of twenty-eight was a common, ordinary yokel, I’d say he was doing fine. But Enjolras Lamarque is not a common, ordinary yokel.”

Sitting up further in his chair, Enjolras’s eyes narrowed, wary of any compliment Philippe paid him, sure that some string came attached to it. Philippe just nodded. “Enjolras Lamarque is an intelligent, smart, ambitious young man — who hates his job — who hates the Building and Loan almost as much as I do. A young man who’s been dying to get out on his own ever since he was born. A young man — the smartest of his crowd, mind you — a young man who’s had to sit by and watch his friends go places, because he’s trapped. Yes, trapped. Trapped into wasting his life away playing nursemaid to the desperate leeches in this town. Do I paint an accurate picture, or do I exaggerate?”

Enjolras had gone very still through this entire speech. “What is your point?” he asked, in lieu of answering Philippe’s question.

Philippe’s smile widened. “My point? Why, my point is, I want to hire you.”

Whatever Enjolras had expected Philippe to say, it was not that, and he openly gaped at him. “You want to hire me?”

“Oh yes. I want you to manage my affairs, run my properties.” Philippe leaned forward. “Enjolras, I will start you at twenty thousand dollars.”

Enjolras felt his mouth fall open as he stared at Philippe. “Twenty thou—twenty thousand dollars a year?”

Philippe nodded, sitting back in his chair as he watched Enjolras’s reaction closely. “You wouldn’t mind living in the nicest house in town, buying your husband a lot of fine clothes, a couple of business trips to New York a year, maybe once in a while, Europe. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

Eyes narrowing, Enjolras sat forward, his brain working a thousand miles a minute as he processed Philippe’s proposal. “What about the Building and Loan?”

“Confound it, man, are you afraid of success?” Philippe asked, laughing. “I’m offering you a three year contract at twenty thousand dollars a year, starting today. Is it a deal or isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Enjolras said, his voice firm and icy.

Philippe frowned at him. “What do you mean, no?”

Enjolras stood, pressing his palms against Philippe’s desk as he leaned across, glaring at him impressively, looking like an avenging angel. “I mean no. No, doggone it! You sit around here and you spin your little webs and you think the whole world revolves are you and your money. Well it doesn’t, Mr. Philippe!” He pointed towards the window, his voice rising in volume and intensity. “In the vast configuration of the world, you’re nothing but a scurvy little spider. And you think the people out there are flies. But they’re not. They’re  _people_. They’re human beings with lives and families who deserve so much more than being caught in your web. And until the day I die I will fight until you and everyone else believes that. I won’t take your deal today, I won’t take your deal tomorrow, I will never take that deal.”

And with that, he strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

When Enjolras got home, he distractedly kissed Grantaire’s cheek before making his way to their bedroom, all but collapsing on the bed. He couldn’t get Philippe’s words out of his head, the promises he had made, the way he had taunted Enjolras’s life, Enjolras’s choices.

Sure, he would love twenty thousand dollars a year. That would enable him to go out in the world and to change things, and surely, surely that would almost make it worth it? To change things, really change them? But the cost…

Wouldn’t the cost be far too great?

Could he give up everything he believed in on the off chance he might be able to change the world?

All he had ever wanted was to get out of this town and change things. All he had ever tried to do was make things better. And what did he have to show for it? This crummy house in this crummy town, stuck in a job he hated, pinching pennies to try and make ends meet? Was that really all his life would ever be?

What was worse, he didn’t even know how he would set about changing the world anymore. This town had gotten to him, had dragged him down, and he was stuck, as stuck here as he had ever been, and even with Philippe’s offer, he would never be free of this place, not really. He had told his father once that if he stayed in this town, he would bust, and he…well, he felt pretty damn close to busting.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear Philippe’s offer from his mind, knowing that nothing good would ever come from it.

Pushing the bedroom door open, he saw the sketch Grantaire had drawn so long ago now hanging framed on the wall. “Enjolras lassos the moon.” He had never gotten Grantaire the moon; he had never gotten Grantaire any of the things he had promised him, and that thought hurt worst of all. He may not have gotten what he had wanted out of life, but if only Grantaire could have gotten everything he had wanted…

He went downstairs and found Grantaire in the kitchen, whistling a familiar tune as he stirred some soup on the stove. Enjolras came up behind him and put his arms around his waist, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Hi,” he said in a low voice.

“Hi,” Grantaire said, sounding curious but clearly trying not to pry at Enjolras’s behavior.

Enjolras was quiet for a moment before asking, “Grantaire, why in the world did you marry a guy like me?”

Grantaire shrugged slightly, adding a bit more salt to the soup. “Couldn’t find anyone else to marry me, so I figured, eh, why not?”

Undeterred, Enjolras told him, his tone turning serious, “You could have married Courfeyrac, or…or…anyone else in town, if you wanted.”

Turning around, Grantaire put his arms around Enjolras’s neck and kissed him lightly. “But that’s just it,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to marry anybody else in town. I wanted to marry you. I wanted you to be the father to my children.”

“You didn’t even have a honeymoon,” Enjolras lamented, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. “And I promised you…” He froze, realizing what Grantaire had just said. “Wait, your  _what_?”

Grantaire grinned at him. “My children.”

Enjolras gaped at him. “You mean…the adoption came through?!”

Nodding, Grantaire’s grin widened and he told Enjolras simply, “Enjolras Lamarque lassos the stork.”

“Lassos the stork! Come here, you.” Enjolras kissed Grantaire as if he was his only source of oxygen, crowding him against the counter and deepening the kiss.

Grantaire kissed Enjolras back, laughing against his lips, his hands closing in Enjolras’s curls. “The soup’s going to burn if you don’t let me up soon.”

“Skip the soup,” Enjolras told him breathlessly. “We can make more. We’re going to have a  _baby_!”


	8. Chapter 8

(“Now, you’ve probably already guessed that Enjolras never leaves Bedford Falls,” Joseph told Myriel, his tone serious and clipped as they sped through the next few years of Enjolras’s life. “Enjolras and Grantaire adopted their first child, a boy, and then another one — a girl. Grantaire worked day after day remaking the old Granville house into a home for their family while Enjolras came home later and later night after night, with Philippe bearing down hard on him. And then…then came a war.”)

Enjolras gripped Marius’s hand hard, torn between wanting to hug him and not wanting to appear too emotional, to appear strong. Marius, in his freshly pressed Naval pilot uniform, was trying to smile nervously at him, while Cosette, next to Enjolras, was dry-eyed and fierce as she looked proudly at her husband. “Now listen, you better come back,” Enjolras threatened, his voice cracking as he gave Marius his most threatening glare. “Because I will come to Europe and drag you home if I have to. Hitler or no Hitler.”

Marius laughed, but it was high pitched and sounded too close to crying to be comfortable, and he pulled Enjolras into a hug, gripping the back of his shirt for a long moment before releasing him. “I promise,” he told Enjolras, his voice serious. “You take care of Ma and Cosette while I’m gone, you hear?”

“Always,” Enjolras promised, putting an arm around Cosette’s shoulder and squeezing her gently. “You just take care of yourself.”

Nodding, Marius kissed Cosette one more time and got on the train. On his other side, Grantaire took Enjolras’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing it gently. “He’ll be fine,” he told Enjolras in a low, bracing voice. “If there’s one fool who can somehow make it out of anything, you know that it’s Pontmercy.”

Enjolras turned to press a kiss into Grantaire’s curls. “I know,” he said, his voice also low. “I just wish…I wish none of them had to go.”

(“Philippe became head of the draft board, and Courfeyrac made a fortune selling plastics to the army,” Joseph added to Myriel. “And Marius was not the only one to serve in the war. Combeferre was wounded in North Africa and got the Silver Star. Bahorel parachuted into France. Jean Prouvaire helped capture the Remagen Bridge. But Marius did top them all. As a Navy flier, he shot down fifteen planes, two of them as they were about to crash into a transport full of soldiers.”

Myriel’s voice was impatient as he asked, “Yes, but what about Enjolras and Grantaire?”)

The day that Combeferre was drafted, Enjolras went home early and pulled Grantaire into his arms, holding him tightly and not saying a word. Grantaire let him hold him without complaint, knowing that he needed to reassure himself, and also taking comfort in Enjolras’s arms around him. Finally, Enjolras kissed Grantaire a little desperately and told him softly, “I live in constant fear of your number being called. I don’t know…I can’t do this without you.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, softly, cupping Enjolras’s cheek and smoothing his thumb over his skin. “And you have no idea how glad that I am that you’re ineligible for the draft because of your ear.”

Enjolras scowled at him. “I don’t see how you can say that—” he started, his voice hot, but Grantaire cut him off with a kiss.

“Because as much you couldn’t do this without me, I could never in a million years do this without you,” Grantaire said simply. “I love you far, far too much for that. And if that’s selfish of me, well, then I’ll be selfish.”

(Joseph said simply, “Enjolras and Grantaire fought the battle of Bedford Falls. Enjolras was air raid warden, Grantaire helped Joly with the Red Cross, they both ran paper drives, scrap drives, rubber drives. Grantaire’s number was never called, and they were both thankful for that. Like everyone else, on V-E Day they wept and prayed, and on V-J Day he wept and prayed again.”

Franklin interrupted for the first time since Joseph had begun telling Enjolras’s story. “Joseph, show him what happened today. It’s important.”

“Yes, sir,” Joseph said, zeroing back in on Bedford Falls. “This morning, day before Christmas, about ten a.m. Bedford Falls time…”)

Enjolras whistled cheerfully as he strode down the street, Christmas wreath tucked under one arm, a stack of newspapers under his arm. He waved cheerfully at Bahorel, who was leaning against his taxi. “Hey, Bahorel, take a look at this!”

He handed him one of the papers, whose headline read, “PRESIDENT DECORATES MARIUS PONTMERCY – LOCAL BOY WINS CONGRESSIONAL MEDAL OF HONOR.” Practically the entire front page was dedicated to coverage of the event, a picture of Marius with President Truman, descriptions of the transport Marius had saved, and more. Bahorel grunted noncommittally. “Yeah, it’s gonna snow again.”

“What do you mean, it’s gonna snow again?” Enjolras demanded, outraged, shaking the paper. “Look at the headline!”

Bahorel laughed and held his hands up defensively. “I know, I know, I saw it already. I think it’s great, Enj.”

Mr. Mabeuf caught sight of them from the window of his store and hurried out to join them. Enjolras beamed at him. “Commander Marius Pontmercy, Mr. Mabeuf, take a look at this.” He handed him one of the newspapers. “This is for you. Here, Bahorel, take one too.” He started to leave, though he called back over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow at the parade!”

He continued whistling as he walked down the street, grinning to himself as he saw people hard at work decorating the Court House with banners and red, white and blue bunting, a huge sign hanging from the front proclaiming, “WELCOME HOME MARIUS PONTMERCY!”

Enjolras headed to the Building and Loan, beaming at Joly, who was on the phone, and waving the newspapers. “Extra! Extra! Read all about it!”

Joly waved him over. “Enjolras, it’s Marius now on long distance from Washington!”

Grabbing the phone from Joly, Enjolras all but shouted into the phone, “Marius! Well, what do you know!”

Tugging on his sleeve, Joly said urgently, “He reversed the charges, but that’s alright, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras laughed, clapping Joly on the shoulder. “For a hero, anything! Marius, you seven kinds of a son of a gun. Congratulations!” He listened to Marius for a long moment, then told Joly, “Mother had lunch with the President’s wife! And the Navy’s flying her home this afternoon.” He listened again and then asked Joly, “Has Bossuet come in yet?”

Joly shook his head. “No, he stopped at the bank first.”

“He’s not here right now, Marius,” Enjolras told Marius.

Joly, however, had caught sight of a man waiting on a chair in the lobby area, and his face whitened as he recognized him as the bank examiner, who came annually to audit the books of the Building and Loan. He turned back to Enjolras, who was chatting excitedly on the phone, and tugged on his sleeve again. “Enjolras,” he hissed. “Enjolras, that man’s here again.”

Enjolras covered the mouthpiece with his hand and frowned at Joly. “Who’s here? What man?”

Nervously, Joly pointed discreetly at the waiting man. “The bank examiner.”

Instantly, Enjolras also paled, and he swallowed hard before telling Marius, “Listen, talk to Joly for a minute, will you? I’ll be back.” He handed the phone to Joly, set the wreath and the newspapers down on the counter and rubbed his hands on his pants before heading over to the bank examiner, holding out his hand to shake. “Good morning, sir.”

The bank examiner stood stiffly, not smiling at Enjolras as he shook his hand. “Carter. Bank examiner.”

“Mr. Carter, Merry Christmas,” Enjolras said, and then, nervous, told him, “We’re all a little excited around here this morning, sorry. My brother got the Congressional Medal of Honor. The President just decorated him.”

He showed Carter the newspaper, and Carter just sniffed at it. “Well. I guess they do those things sometimes.” He frowned at Enjolras. “I trust you had a good year.”

Enjolras forced a chuckle and set the newspaper back on the counter before tugging at his collar. “Good year? Well, between you and me, Mr. Carter, we’re broke.”

Carter didn’t even crack a smile as he said drily, “Yeah, very funny.”

“Right,” Enjolras said, forcing a nervous smile on his face. “So why don’t you come right in to the office, Mr. Carter.”

Though Carter followed Enjolras into the office, he sniffed, “Although I shouldn’t wonder you aren’t broke when you okay reverse charges on personal long distance calls at work.”

Joly overheard this comment and glanced at Enjolras. “Enj, should we hang up?”

Gesturing dismissively, Enjolras stepped back to allow Carter into his office. “No, no. Stay on the line. He wants to talk to Bossuet. So you just hold on.”

Carter cleared his throat loudly. “Now, if you’ll cooperate, I’d like to finish with you by tonight. I want to spend Christmas in Elmira with my family.”

“I don’t blame you at all, Mr. Carter,” Enjolras said quickly, flashing him his most charming smile. “Just step right into my office here. We’ll fix you right up.”

* * *

 

Across town at the bank, Bossuet was carefully filling out a deposit slip at one of the desks, taking his time to ensure that he did not mess up the deposit at all. “Let’s see, December the twenty-fourth…” He pulled a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and thumbed through the wad of bills inside, checking to ensure the large sum of money was all accounted for, and once he had, he wrote on the deposit slip, “Eight thousand dollars.”

He glanced to the door as Mr. Philippe was wheeled in, flipping through the newspaper and ignoring the various bank officials that rushed over to meet him. He didn’t glance up until Bossuet, who had finished the deposit slip and gathered both the slip and the envelope of cash into his hands, turned to say loudly, “Well, good morning, Mr. Philippe. What’s the news?”

Unable to contain himself, he grabbed the paper from Philippe and held it up for all to see as he announced, “Well, well, well, Marius Pontmercy receives Congressional Medal of Honor. That couldn’t be one of those Lamarque boys? You just can’t keep those Lamarques down, now can you, Mr. Philippe?”

Philippe scowled. “And how does his slacker brother Enjolras feel about that?”

“Oh very jealous, very jealous,” Bossuet chortled. “He only lost three buttons off his vest when he heard the news. Of course, ‘slacker’ Enjolras would have gotten two of those medals if he had gone.”

Philippe’s expression twisted even further. “Bad ear,” he snapped. “I know. A shame that his husband’s number didn’t come up. I’m sure  _he_  would have served his country well.”

Bossuet’s lip curled and he folded Philippe’s paper over the envelope containing his deposit, jabbing his hand toward Philippe. “He did serve his country well. They both did. After all, Philippe, some people had to stay home since not every heel was in Germany and Japan!”

In a rage at Bossuet’s taunt, Philippe grabbed his paper back from Bossuet and wheeled towards his office. Bossuet smiled triumphantly at his retreating back and headed to the teller counter, sliding the deposit slip across the counter, chuckling as he said, “Good morning, Horace,” to the teller.

The teller frowned at him. “I guess you forgot something.”

Bossuet frowned right back at him. “What did I forget?”

“Aren’t you going to make a deposit?” the teller asked, holding up the slip. “Well, it’s usually customary to bring the money with you.”

Bossuet went white as he stared back at him. “Oh. Um. Shucks. Hold on, now.” He started searching through every pocket he had, desperation growing as he couldn’t come up with the envelope. “I know I had it!” he said, looking around bewilderedly.

The teller cleared his throat and pointed at one of the strings on Bossuet’s fingers, too used to Bossuet’s tendencies. “Maybe it’s that reminder, there?”

Looking down at the string, Bossuet shrugged helplessly.

* * *

 

Inside his office, Philippe opened his newspaper again, muttering viciously to himself, “Those Lamarques…” He was surprised by the envelope that slid out from his newspaper, and opened it, looking down at the money. A sudden grin flashed across his face and he gestured at his crony. “Take me back out there. Hurry up.” His goon looked startled and Philippe snapped, “Come on, now, look sharp.”

Once he got outside his office door, he settled back into his chair, his smile growing more and more vicious as he watched Bossuet tearing through his pockets and the waste paper basket with increasing panic, finally rushing out the door and into the street, desperately glancing at the ground as he went.

“Take me back,” Philippe ordered, his vicious smile turning contemplative as he wondered how best to make this situation to his advantage.

* * *

 

Back at the Building and Loan, Enjolras told the bank examiner, “Just make yourself at home, Mr. Carter, and I’ll get those books for you.” He closed the door and turned around, surprised to see, of all people, Montparnasse standing there waiting for him. “Why, hello, Parnasse.”

Montparnasse cleared his throat. “Enjolras, can I speak to you for a second?”

If Enjolras was surprised, he just managed to not show it. “Why, of course you can. Come on into my office.” He heard Bossuet enter the office and waved at him. “Bossuet, talk to Marius! He’s on the phone.”

Bossuet nodded distractedly, glancing around the office even as Joly pressed the phone into his hands, telling him, “Hey, here’s Marius on the phone.” At Bossuet’s blank look, Joly added helpfully, “Your cousin, remember? Long distance from Washington.”

“Oh, right,” Bossuet said, still distracted, even as he took the phone, clearly not paying attention to anything that was going on as he told Marius, “Hello, hello. Yes, Marius, yes — everything…everything’s fine.”

He hung up on him and muttered to himself as he headed into his own office, saying so lowly that Joly couldn’t hear him, “I’ve gotta have my head examined. Eight thousand dollars — it’s got to be here somewhere”, leaving Joly staring after him, dumbfounded.

Inside Enjolras’s office, Enjolras finished writing something and slipped it into an envelope. “Here you are,” he said softly. “The reference of character letter.”

“Character?” Montparnasse repeated bitterly. “If I had any character, I’d…”

Enjolras’s voice was gentle as he told him, “It takes a lot of character to leave your hometown and start all over again.”

After a moment, Montparnasse nodded, and Enjolras pulled his wallet from his pocket, taking out a few bills and handing them to Montparnasse, who initially refused. “No, Enj, don’t…”

“Here, you’re broke, aren’t you?” Enjolras said gruffly. “I mean, what are you going to do, hock your fancy suits and your nice hat? Are you going to walk to New York? They charge for meals and rent up there just as much as they do here in Bedford Falls.”

Montparnasse took the money with trembling fingers and offered him a small smile. “Sure, thanks.”

Enjolras smiled as well. “It’s a loan. That’s my business, after all, building and loan. Besides, you’ll get a job. Good luck to you.”

He offered his hand, but Montparnasse just looked up at him, a strange look on his face, and told him, “I’m glad I know you, Enjolras Lamarque”, before stretching to his full height to kiss Enjolras on the cheek. Enjolras turned bright red and quickly opened the office door for him, escorting him outside. The bank examiner was outside waiting for him, arms crossed in front of his chest, and Joly was looking nervously between Enjolras and Montparnasse.

Clearing his throat, Enjolras said quickly, “Well, say hello to New York for me. Merry Christmas, Parnasse.”

“Merry Christmas, Enjolras,” Montparnasse said before leaving, all without looking at Joly, who was staring at him suspiciously.

The bank examiner cleared his throat and Enjolras smiled at him. “Oh, Mr. Carter, I’m so sorry. I’ll be right with you.” He glanced at Joly. “Is Bossuet in now?”

Joly nodded. “Yeah, he’s in his office.

Enjolras headed into Bossuet’s office, surprised to find the entire place torn apart, drawers hanging open, papers scattered across the desk and the floor. Gaping at him, Enjolras quickly shut the door behind him before the bank examiner could see inside. “Bossuet, what’s going on? The bank examiner’s here, and I—”

Bossuet looked up, dismayed. “He’s here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Enjolras said, concerned, crossing over to him. “He wants the accounts payable…” He trailed off when he saw the look on Bossuet’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”

Gesturing to him, Bossuet told him in a whisper, “Enjolras, please don’t be mad, but I have something to tell you…”

* * *

 

A few hours later, Enjolras and Bossuet had completely turned the entire office and much of the town upside down in search of the envelope. They had scoured the office, retraced Bossuet’s steps from his house to the office to the bank, all to no avail. Enjolras’s curls were wild from him running his hands through them, increasingly frantic as time went on, while Bossuet sat at his desk, head in hands. “Did you put the envelope in your pocket?” Enjolras asked, his voice hoarse, going over the story another time.

Bossuet shrugged helplessly. “Yeah, yeah. I mean…well, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Enjolras practically shouted at him. “I don’t want any maybe! Bossuet, we have got to find that money!”

Making a whimpering noise, Bossuet shook his head slowly. “I’m no good to you, Enjolras, I’ve never been good for this company, I—”

Enjolras had little time for Bossuet’s self-pity. “Listen to me,” he snapped. “Do you have any secret hiding place in your house? Someplace you could have put it? Someplace to hide the money?”

Bossuet shook his head again, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly. “I’ve been over the entire house, Enj,” he said. “I’ve been through every room. I’ve asked Joly and Musichetta. It’s…it’s not here.”

He started sobbing, curling in on himself as he rocked back and forth. Enjolras was torn between despair and fury as he stared at him. “Listen to me, listen to me,” he said urgency. “Bossuet, you have to think!”

“I can’t think anymore,” Bossuet sobbed, his head in his hands. “I can’t think anymore, it hurts—”

Enjolras grabbed him by his lapels and jerked him to his feet, shaking him bodily, forcing him to meet his eyes. Bossuet stared helplessly at him, his pockets all hanging out, looking for all the world like a frisked criminal. Enjolras was almost maniacal as he shouted at him, “Where’s that money, you stupid, silly fool? Where’s the money? Do you realize what this means for us? It means bankruptcy and scandal, and prison!” He practically threw Bossuet back into his chair, continuing to shout at him. “That’s what it means! One of us could be going to jail! Well, it’s not going to be me, do you understand that? It’s not going to be me!”

His lip curled as he stared down at Bossuet, who was still sobbing, and he headed for the door, kicking the waste basket on the floor as he went, leaving Bossuet behind, sobbing brokenly, his head in his arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Though mentioned in the tags, definite warnings in this chapter for suicide ideation/contemplation, so please be aware of that.**

Grantaire sat next to Jean as he carefully practiced the piano, playing the same note progression from “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, trying to nail the proper notes, and both looked up as Enjolras pushed the door open, snow beginning to dust his head and shoulders. Grantaire smiled widely at him. “Hello, darling.”

Jean beamed as well. “Hello Daddy! What do you think of the tree?”

He pointed to the Christmas tree that stood in the corner of the living room, wrapped presents sitting at its base. They had clearly spent the afternoon decorating the tree, but Enjolras just stared at it blankly, thinking of how he had spent his afternoon instead. Grantaire’s smile faltered, and he asked Enjolras carefully, “Did you bring the Christmas wreath for the window?”

Enjolras shook his head, his shoulders slumping, and his response was gruff as he told Grantaire, “No, I left it at the office.”

He came into the house, clearly distracted, and Grantaire frowned, beginning to feel concerned, especially as he noticed that Enjolras wasn’t wearing a coat or hat. “Well, where’s your coat and hat? You’ll catch your death out there!”

“Left them at the office,” Enjolras told him in the same gruff, emotionless voice, not meeting Grantaire's eyes.

Grantaire stood, crossing over to him, kissing his cheek, frowning even deeper when Enjolras just seemed to stand there without even noticing him. “What’s the matter?”

Enjolras snorted and shook his head, running a hand through his curls. “Nothing’s the matter,” he said, his voice curt and bitter. “Everything’s perfectly wonderful.”

With that, he slumped into an armchair next to the fire, staring into the flickering flames as if they might somehow hold the answers. Grantaire cleared his throat, heading over to the tree to adjust a few ornaments. “Isn’t it wonderful about Marius? We’re famous, Enj. I probably had, what, fifty calls today about the parade, the banquet. Your mother’s so excited, she—”

Enjolras made a small noise, and Grantaire broke off, staring at him in something close to horror when he realized that Enjolras was crying, mostly silent tears running down his face. Grantaire gripped the edge of the piano, unsure what he should do. In all their time together, for all their ups and downs, he had never seen Enjolras like this, because Enjolras was always so strong, always so sure, and Grantaire had no idea what he was supposed to do now that the opposite was true.

Little Jean was thankfully oblivious as he plunked away at the piano, and Enjolras shook his head, roughly brushing the tears from his cheeks. “Must he keep playing that?” he snapped harshly.

“I have to practice for the party tonight, Daddy,” Jean told him, not picking up on his father’s mood. “Dad says that we can stay up til midnight and sing Christmas carols. Can you sing, Daddy?”

Grantaire cleared his throat, trying to stave off any further harsh words from Enjolras. “You better hurry up and shave. The families will be here soon for the party.”

Abruptly, Enjolras stood, his hands clenched into fists. “Families! I don’t want any families here.”

Though Grantaire was take aback by the sudden vitriol in Enjolras’s tone, he still took his arm and led him towards the kitchen, telling him in a low, soothing tone, “Why don’t you come on out in the kitchen with me while I finish dinner?” Once they were inside the kitchen, Grantaire asked quietly, “Had a hectic day?”

Enjolras snorted. “Oh, yeah, another big red letter day for the Lamarques.”

From inside the living room, Jean told Enjolras, “Daddy, the Browns next door have a new car. You should see it.”

Turning on him, Enjolras snarled, “Well, what’s the mater with our car? Isn’t it good enough for you?”

Thoroughly cowed by Enjolras’s attitude, Jean just nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes, Daddy.”

Grantaire frowned, his grip on Enjolras’s arm tightening. “Maybe you should go upstairs and see Zazie, since she’s sick,” he suggested, hoping that this would perhaps get Enjolras out of whatever foul mood he was in.

Instead, Enjolras rounded on Grantaire, his eyes flashing in a mix of irritation and concern. “Zazie? What’s the matter with Zazie?”

Shrugging unconcernedly, Grantaire told Enjolras, “Oh, she’s just got a cold. She’s in bed. Caught it coming home from school. They gave her a flower as a prize and she didn’t want to crush it so she didn’t button up her coat. The doctor says it’s nothing serious and that we shouldn’t worry about it, that she’s only running a teensie temperature, ninety-nine point six. She’ll be alright.”

Enjolras nodded, though he still looked concerned, starting to pace through the kitchen. “It’s got to be this old house,” he muttered under his breath, looking around at the walls murderously. “I don’t know how we don’t all have pneumonia, living in this drafty old barn. Might as well be living in a refrigerator! Why did we have to live here in the first place? Why in the world would we stay around this measly, crummy old town?”

Grantaire was watching Enjolras warily with mounting concern. “Enjolras, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Enjolras asked, with a bitter laugh that bordered on hysteria, his blue eyes flashing. “Everything’s wrong! You call this a happy family? Why did we have to even have children in the first place?”

He headed towards the doorway, and Grantaire asked him, almost nervously, “Where are you going?”

Pausing, Enjolras told him in a stiff voice, “I’m going up to see Zazie.”

On his way up the stairs, Enjolras tripped over a stair that was starting to sag, one he should have replaced weeks ago, and he glared at it, tempted to kick the stupid thing until it caved inward. Instead, he took a steadying breath before heading into Zazie’s bedroom, managing a tired smile when she beamed up at him, her prize flower still clutched in her hand. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Well, what happened to you?” Enjolras asked fondly, sitting down on the edge of her bed and feeling her forehead with one hand.

She blinked up at him innocently and held up her flower. “I won a flower.” She started to get out of bed, but Enjolras stopped her, frowning down at her.

“Wait just a second now. Where do you think you’re going?”

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she told him, “I want to give my flower a drink.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes slightly and said firmly, “All right, well you need to stay in bed. Here, give Daddy your flower. I’ll give it a drink.”

He held his hand out for the flower, but Zazie shook her head, clutching the flower to her, her lower lip started to wobble. A few petals fell off the flower, and her lip wobbled even more. “Look, Daddy,” she said. “Paste it.”

With that, she shoved the flower to Enjolras, also giving him the fallen petals. He shook his head but indulged her, telling her, “Yeah, all right. I’ll paste this together.” Turning his back so that she couldn’t see, he pretended to tinker with the flower as if reattaching the petals, while instead he rearranged the petals so as to hide the missing ones, tucking the fallen petals into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Then he turned back around, smiling at Zazie as he presented the flower to her. “There it is, good as new.”

“Give the flower a drink,” Zazie commanded, and though Enjolras rolled his eyes again, he put the flower into the glass of water on her bedside table.

Then he bent down and asked her seriously, “Now, will you do something for me?” Leaning in even closer, he whispered, “Will you try to get some sleep so you can get better?”

She frowned at him. “But I’m not sleepy,” she protested. “I want to look at my flower.”

“I know,” Enjolras said, stroking her hair. “I know, but if you just go to sleep, then you can dream about it, and there’ll be a whole garden of flowers.”

Her eyes widened. “There will?”

He smiled, a little wistfully, wishing for just a moment that he could have the easy faith of a child. “Yeah.”

At his reassurance, Zazie closed her eyes, almost instantly relaxing and falling asleep. Enjolras pulled the covers back over her and tucked her in gently. For just a moment, he watched her sleep, and then he bent down and kissed her head lightly before standing and tiptoeing out of the room.

He headed back downstairs in a marginally better mood, though it soured at hearing Jean continuing to play the same notes on the piano. The telephone rang and Grantaire grabbed it. “Hello? Yes, this is Mr. Lamarque.” Enjolras frowned at him, wondering who would be calling them right now. Grantaire just waved a dismissive hand at him. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Welch. I’m sure she’ll be all right. The doctor says she ought to be out of bed in time to have her Christmas dinner.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed, and he hissed, “Is that Zazie’s teacher?” When Grantaire nodded at him, Enjolras demanded, “Let me speak to her.”

Before Grantaire could say or do anything, Enjolras had grabbed the phone from him, all but snarling into the mouthpiece, “Hell, Mrs. Welch? This is Enjolras Lamarque. I’m Zazie’s father. What kind of teacher do you think you are, sending her home like that, half-naked? Do you realize she’ll probably end up with pneumonia on account of you?”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire snapped, trying to grab the phone from him before he could continue, but Enjolras shook him off.

All of the rage, the anger, the fear, the disappointment from the day was bubbling up inside Enjolras, and while a small part of him knew that this wasn’t right, he couldn’t help but use his tirade against Zazie’s teacher as a tirade against his entire life. “Is this the sort of thing we pay taxes for — to have teachers like you? Silly, stupid careless people who send out kids home without any clothes on? You know, maybe my kids aren’t the best-dressed in school, and maybe they don’t have many decent clothes, but—”

Grantaire managed to wrestle the phone from Enjolras, glaring at him as he quickly said, “Hello, Mrs. Welch, I want to apologize — hello? She’s hung up.”

Enjolras scoffed, “I’ll hang her up!”

Suddenly, a very angry male voice said on the telephone, “Now, who do you think you are?”

Grabbing the receiver back from Grantaire, Enjolras said angrily, “Hello? Who is this? Oh, Mr. Welch? Oh, that’s fine, Mr. Welch, give me a chance to tell you what I really think of your wife!”

Grantaire once again tried to take the phone from him, but Enjolras shoved him away, snapping, “Will you just let me handle this?” Grantaire backed away, hurt undisguised on his face, but Enjolras ignored him, shouting into the phone, “What’s that? Oh, you will, huh? Ok, Mr. Welch, any time you think you’re man enough to—”

Thankfully, Mr. Welch chose that moment to hang up, and Enjolras slammed the phone down as well, his face bright red as he glared first at Grantaire and then at Jean, who was still practicing. “Jean, haven’t you leaned that silly tune yet? You’ve played it over and over again. Now stop it! Stop it!”

Jean stopped playing immediately, staring at Enjolras with wide, frightened eyes. Enjolras caught sight of some of his old books on the desk in the living room, books on politics and different countries, and in a fury, he crossed to them and knocked them on the ground, knowing that they were useless, that they had lied to him, that every promise of change he had ever thought was a complete and utter lie. He kicked at them savagely, his anger and frustration spilling out.

He only stopped when he heard Jean crying, and he turned to see Grantaire and Jean both staring at him, frightened looks on their faces. He instantly deflated, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m…I’m so sorry, Grantaire, Jean. I didn’t mean…you go on and practice, Jean. I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“It’s ok, Daddy,” Jean told him, though his voice shook.

Jean and Grantaire both continued to stare at him, and Enjolras shook his head, feeling as overwhelmed by that as anything else. “What’s the matter with everybody?” he asked, trying to ease the tension somewhat. “Jean, go on. I told you to practice. Now go on, play!”

Instead, Jean burst into tears, and Grantaire instantly crossed to him, sitting down next to him on the piano bench and cradling him against himself as he glared at Enjolras. “Why are you doing this?” he snapped. “Why don’t you just—”

Grantaire didn’t get a chance to finish the thought, because the sight of Jean crying and Grantaire glaring like that at him was too much for Enjolras, and stared wildly around the room for a moment before practically sprinting out the front door. For a long moment, Grantaire let Jean cry, but then he helped him sit up and crossed to the telephone, telling the operator, “Bedford, two-four-seven, please.”

“Is Daddy in trouble?” Jean asked in a small voice. “Shall I pray for him?”

Grantaire gripped the phone tightly and closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying not to let his panic spill into his features. “Yes, Jean. Pray very, very hard.” Into the phone, he said, “Hello, Bossuet? It’s about Enjolras.”

* * *

 

Enjolras’s hands shook, less with nerves and more with utter disappointment in himself that it had come to this. Still, he forced himself to meet Mr. Philippe’s greedy gaze as he told him in a clear voice, “I’m in trouble, Mr. Philippe. I need help. Through some sort of an accident, my company’s short in their accounts. The bank examiner’s up there today, and I’ve got to raise eight thousand dollars immediately.” He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his last shred of pride even as he was doing what he had always pledged never to do: crawling to Philippe for help. “Please help me, Mr. Philippe. Help me, won’t you please? Can’t you see what it means to my family? I’ll pay you any sort of a bonus on the loan…any interest you want. If you…If you still want the Building and Loan, I—”

Philippe cleared his throat and interrupted him. “Enjolras, could it possibly be there’s a slight discrepancy in the books?”

“No, sir,” Enjolras told him, lifting his chin slightly. “There’s nothing wrong with the books. I’ve just misplaced eight thousand dollars. I can’t find it anywhere.”

Now Philippe looked up at him, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. “You misplaced eight thousand dollars? Have you notified the police?”

Enjolras shook his head and licked his lips nervously. “No, sir. I didn’t want the publicity, what with Marius’s homecoming tomorrow…”

Philippe snorted incredulously. “Oh, they’re going to believe that one.” He leaned forward, his expression turning almost cruel. “What’ve you been doing, Enjolras? Playing the market with the company’s money? No? A man on the side, then? You know, it’s all over town that you’ve been giving money to Montparnasse.”

Staring at him, Enjolras choked out, “What? No I never—”

“Not that it makes any difference to me,” Philippe continued, as if Enjolras had never spoken, “but why did you come to me? Why wouldn’t you go to your friend Courfeyrac for the money?”

Enjolras’s hands clenched into fists, and it took more effort than he could possibly explain to say calmly, “I can’t get ahold of him. He’s in Europe.”

Philippe smiled slightly. “Well, what about all your other friends?”

“They don’t have that kind of money,” Enjolras said, desperation creeping into his voice. “You know that. You’re the only one in town that can help me.”

Now Philippe sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him as he smirked at Enjolras. “Oh, I see. I’ve suddenly become quite important. What kind of security would I have for a loan, Enjolras? Have you got any stocks?” Enjolras just shook his head, stone-faced. “Well, any bonds then? Real estate? Collateral of any kind?”

With trembling fingers, Enjolras pulled a slip of paper out of his inside jacket pocket. “I have some life insurance, a fifteen thousand dollar policy.”

Philippe’s eyes narrowed. “Yes…how much is your equity in it?”

“Five hundred dollars,” Enjolra told him hollowly.

Philippe’s mouth curved into a cruel, victorious smile, and his tone turned mocking. “Look at you. You used to be so cocky! You were going to go out and change the world! You once called me a warped, frustrated old man, but what are you but a warped, frustrated young man? A miserable little clerk crawling in here on your hands and knees and begging for help!”

Enjolras flinched against the words, but Philippe carried on, almost gleeful in his hate. “No securities, no bonds, nothing but a miserable little five hundred dollar equity in a life insurance policy. Why, you’re worth more dead than alive!”

As he chortled at his own joke, Enjolras stared at him in growing horror. “Why don’t you go to the riff-raff you love so much and ask them to let you have eight thousand dollars? Oh, I know why — because they’d run you out of town on a rail! How quickly the people would turn against you!” He leaned back in his chair, his smile vicious as he told Enjolras, “But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do for you, Enjolras. Since the state bank examiner is still here, as a stockholder of the Building and Loan, I’m going to swear out a warrant for your arrest on the charges of misappropriation of funds, manipulation, malfeasance—”

Enjolras stumbled to his feet, heading to the door, but Philippe called after him, “All right, Enjolras, go ahead! You can’t hide in a town like this!” Though Enjolras was already gone, Philippe picked up the telephone. “Hello, I’d like you to connect me to the police.”

* * *

 

Once Enjolras stumbled out of the bank, he paid barely attention to where he was going, completely at a loss for what he was supposed to do now that his absolute last possible idea was completely ruined. He got into his car, his mind a thousand miles away, and somehow found himself driving to Feuilly’s bar.

Though alcohol was normally Grantaire’s province far more than his, he supposed that it didn’t really make any difference anymore. Which was how, an hour or so later, he found himself quite possibly drunker than he had ever been, swaying on his bar stool. Though Feuilly had initially been happy to see him, his happiness had slid into concern as Enjolras went deeper and deeper into the bottle.

Over and over, Enjolras mumbled to himself, so quietly that no one around could hear him, “Please, I’m not a praying man, but if anyone’s up there and can hear me, show me the way. I’m at the end of my rope. Show me the way, please.”

Feuilly leaned against the bar and cleared his throat. “All you alright, Enj? Do you want someone to take you home?” When Enjolras just shook his head, he asked softly, “Why are you drinking so much, my friend? Please go home, Mr. Lamarque. It’s Christmas Eve.”

On the other side of Enjolras, a burly man reacted sharply to the name Lamarque, standing up and glowering around. “Lamarque? Who’s Lamarque?”

When Enjolras blinked up at him, the man’s lip curled and without warning, he threw a vicious punch, toppling Enjolras off of his bar stool. Feuilly instantly rushed to Enjolras’s side, but the burly man spat down at him, “And the next time you talk to my wife like that, you’ll get worse! She cried for over an hour. It isn’t enough that she slaves away teaching your stupid brats how to read and write, but you have to bawl her out—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Welch!” Feuilly said furiously, helping Enjolras to his feet. “You get out of here!”

Welch shook his head, reaching for his wallet. “Now, wait, I want to pay for my drink.”

Feuilly shook his head. “Your money’s not wanted here. You hit one of my best friends. Get out!” He turned back to Enjolras, tilting his head up to examine his face, wincing at the bruise beginning to bloom across his cheek and the trickle of blood from his nose. “Are you all right, Enjolras?”

“Who was that?” Enjolras croaked, confused.

Shrugging, Feuilly told him, “He’s gone, don’t worry. His name is Welch. He won’t be coming in here anymore.” To his barmaid, he said sharply, “That’s the last time he comes in here. Do you hear that, Éponine?”

Enjolras laughed, a dry laugh. “Oh, Welch. Well, that’s what I get for praying, I guess.” He patted his jacket. “Where’s my insurance policy? Oh, there it is.”

He stumbled towards the door, but Feuilly tried to stop him, concerned. “Oh, no, please, Enjolras. Don’t leave like this. You’re not…you’re not doing so well!”

Enjolras just pushed him off, telling him with words that slurred together, “I’m all right. I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Then he was gone, leaving Feuilly staring after him, still worried.

* * *

 

Enjolras’s car careened down the empty streets, which were full of the falling snow, when it went into a skid, spinning across the slick streets and crashing into a tree. Enjolras groaned loudly and got out of the car to inspect the damage, aiming a savage kick at the car when he saw how it looked.

The owner of the house that the tree belonged to came running out, shouting at Enjolras, “What do you think you’re doing there, huh?”

Enjolras just stared at him blankly, standing unsteadily and staring from the damage to the man, trying to make sense of what was happening. The owner whistled when he saw the damage done to the car, the broken lights and the torn up fender, but his expression turned furious when he saw what the car had done to his tree. “Now look what you did!” he snapped. “My great-grandfather planted this tree!”

Ignoring him, Enjolras began to stagger away from the car, heading down the street and paying no attention to the man as he shouted after him, “Hey, you — hey, you! Come back here, you drunken fool! Get this car out of here, you hear me? Get back here!”

Enjolras lurched down the street without having any idea where he was going or what he was doing. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely even noticed as a truck almost hit him, ignoring the driver of the truck who yelled, “Hey, what’s the matter with you? Watch where you’re going!”

His path took him to a metal bridge that crossed the river in town, and he slowed, running his hand across the narrow railing, staring down at the icy water below. He took a deep, calming breath, repeating Philippe’s words softly to himself, “Worth more dead than alive.”

He patted the insurance policy in his jacket that proved that point in spades. He really was worth nothing alive, and today had more than proved that. What good was he? He was a terrible husband, an awful father. His family wouldn’t even want him to come back after the way he had behaved today, and for good reason. He didn’t know if he had ever been so ashamed of himself for leaving that as their final memory of him, but perhaps it was for the best. Hating him might be easier in the end.

And other than his family — what had he done with his life? What had he even accomplished? All he had ever wanted to do was try and change the world, try to make it better, and instead, it seemed to him that he had made it worse. Everything he touched seemed to turn to ruin and despair, and he gripped his hair for a moment, almost sobbing in despair. What was there for him here? What good was he to anyone?

Worth more dead than alive.

He took another long look at the water below, wondering how quickly he would drown at this rate. The temperature would get to him quickly, he guessed, without someone there to pull him out the way he had pulled Marius out as a child. He gripped the railing tightly and took a deep breath, thinking desperately,  _I’m so sorry, Grantaire, I couldn’t give you everything you wanted_ , and then he began to leverage himself over the railing so that he could throw himself into the waters below.

Suddenly, seemingly from above Enjolras, a body hurtled past him and into the water, landing with a loud splash. Enjolras looked down, horrified, as the man began to flail in the water. “Help!” the man called, going under for a second before resurfacing. “Please, help me!”

With only a second’s hesitation, Enjolras peeled his jacket off and set it on the railing before diving into the water after the man, grabbing him around the waist and swimming towards shore. Once they had reached the shore, where they were joined by the bridge toll house keeper, who had heard the shouts, the man offered a shaking hand to Enjolras. “Hello,” he said, his teeth chattering. “My name’s Myriel.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for [temporary, I promise] referenced major character death in this chapter**. But hey, the next chapter _will_ be happy, I promise!

Inside the bridge’s tollhouse, Enjolras silently accepted a mug of coffee, staring out the window at the dark night, pointedly ignoring both the toll keeper and the man called Myriel, who was in the middle of arranging his clothing to dry. If Enjolras had been paying attention, he might have noticed that Myriel’s clothing was over a century out of date, and to the toll keeper’s raised eyebrow, Myriel explained, “I had no need for fashionable garments. What worldly possessions I had were shared with those who needed it. But these – well, the sisters gave me these, and they’re what I passed away in.”

Unsurprisingly, this comment did little to reassure the toll keeper, who stared at him as if he didn’t quite know what to think. Myriel kept glancing hopefully at Enjolras as if he might turn around and notice him. When he didn’t, Myriel picked the book up from where it was drying by the fire. “Oh, good,” he said, relieved. “ _Les Misérables_  is drying out, too.” He winked at the toll keeper. “You should see the new book Victor Hugo is writing now.”

The toll keeper’s expression didn’t change, as he was still looking at Myriel as if he’d grown an extra head. Still, he cleared his throat and asked, “So, how’d you happen to fall into the river?”

Myriel smiled blithely at him. “Oh, I didn’t fall in,” he reassured him. “I jumped in. To save Enjolras.”

At the mention of his name, Enjolras looked up, frowning at Myriel. “You did what?” he asked, confused. “To save me?”

Nodding, Myriel looked at Enjolras with wide, almost innocent eyes. “Well, I did, didn’t I? You didn’t go through with it, did you?”

Enjolras was still confused and so just shook his head as he asked, “Go through with what?”

“Suicide,” Myriel said solemnly, and both Enjolras and the toll keeper reacted rather strongly to the word, Enjolras by swallowing hard and quickly looking away, the toll keeper looking at both men suspiciously.

“It’s against the law to commit suicide around here,” the toll keeper told them, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Myriel just nodded. “Oh, it’s against the law where I come from, too.”

The toll keeper was not comforted by that. “And where do you come from?”

Whatever he had expected the answer to be, it was not Myriel’s casual, “Heaven.” The toll keeper practically choked but Myriel just turned to Enjolras, explaining to him, “I had to act quickly; that’s why I jumped in. I knew if I were drowning you’d try to save me. And you see, you did, and that’s how I saved you.”

He sounded proud of himself, but Enjolras just looked at him blankly. “Very funny,” he said, in a dull sort of voice.

Myriel frowned. “Your nose’s bleeding, Enjolras.”

Enjolras reached up to touch it gingerly, looking surprised, as if he had already forgotten about the fight at Feuilly’s. “Oh. Yeah. I got punched in the face in answer to a prayer a little bit ago.”

Surprisingly, Myriel laughed a little at that. “Oh, no, no. I’m the answer to your prayer. That’s why I was sent down here.”

Though Enjolras asked Myriel, “Say, how do you know my name?”, it was without much real interest. “Are you a mind reader or something?”

Myriel chuckled again. ‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. I’m just Myriel Bienvenu, Angel, Second Class.”

The toll keeper actually fell out of his seat at that, and when he stood, began edging towards the door, clearly assuming – and perhaps rightly so – that Myriel was out of his mind. Myriel just smiled cheerfully at him when he reached the door. “Cheerio, my good man.”

Enjolras, on the other hand, assumed that the one out of his mind was probably himself. He rubbed his forehead, frowning. “I wonder what the heck Feuilly put in those drinks.” He glanced up at Myriel, his frown deepening. “Hey, what’s with you? What did you say a minute ago? Why’d you want to save me?”

Myriel just blinked at him as if it was the most obvious answer in the whole entire world. “That’s what I was sent down here for. I’m your guardian angel.” As Enjolras just stared at him, Myriel tutted, “Ridiculous of you to think of killing yourself over money. Eight thousand dollars…”

Bewildered, Enjolras asked him, “How is it that you keep knowing things like that?”

“I told you,” Myriel said, patiently. “I’m your guardian angel. I know _everything_  about you.”

Enjolras looked him up and down, suspicious, then shrugged. “Well, you look just about like the kind of angel I’d get. Sort of a fallen angel, aren’t you? What happened to your wings?”

For the first time, Myriel’s smile faltered slightly. “I haven’t won my wings yet. That’s why I’m Angel, Second Class.” He leaned in towards Enjolras, his expression earnest. “But you’ll help me earn them, right?”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, clearly humoring him. “I don’t like being seen around with an angel without wings anyway. How can I help you earn them?”

“By letting me help you,” Myriel said simply.

Enjolras laughed, a bitter, sarcastic bark of a laugh, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Only one way that you can help me. You don’t happen to have eight thousand dollars on you, do you?”

Myriel shook his head. “Oh, no,” he told Enjolras. “We don’t use money in Heaven.”

“Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting,” Enjolras said, grinning almost viciously. “Well, it comes in pretty handy down here.” Myriel shook his head disapprovingly, but the grin had already slipped off of Enjolras’s face, replaced with something close to despair. “I found it out just a little late. I’m worth more dead than alive.”

“Oh, now, you musn’t talk like that,” Myriel said urgently, clearly worried. “I won’t get my wings with that attitude. You just don’t know all that you’ve done. Why, if it hadn’t been for you—”

Enjolras stood up abruptly, his expression twisting. “Yeah, if it hadn’t been for me, everybody would be a lot better off. My husband, my kids, my friends…” He trailed off, misery plain in every line of his face, and without looking at Myriel, told him harshly, “Look, why don’t you just go off and haunt somebody else.”

Frowning, Myriel protested, “But you don’t understand, I’ve got my job—”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Enjolras snapped, crossing over to the window and staring out of it.

Myriel’s frown turned contemplative as he examined Enjolras closely. “Hmmm, this isn’t going to be so easy.” He paced the room for a moment, asking Enjolras in an almost clinical tone, “So you still think killing yourself would make everyone feel happier, hm?”

Shrugging dejectedly, Enjolras shook his head, staring morosely out the window. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quiet and defeated. “I figure if not that, then it would have just been better if I’d never been born at all.”

“What’d you say?”

Enjolras shrugged again. “I said I wish I’d never been born.”

“Oh, you musn’t say things like that,” Myriel said worriedly. Then he froze, realizing what Enjolras had said, and muttered to himself, “Wait a minute. That’s an idea.” He glanced upwards. “What do you think?” he asked loudly. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, that’ll do it. All right.” He turned to Enjolras and beamed at him. “You’ve got your wish. You’ve never been born.”

Outside the window, unnoticed by Enjolras, who was mostly gaping at Myriel, the snow had abruptly stopped falling, and a gust sprang up, blowing the door of the little hut open. Myriel clucked his tongue and frowned upwards as he hurried to close the door. “You don’t have to make all that fuss about it.”

Enjolras froze as well, turning his head carefully, noticing something different. “What did you say?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“You’ve never been born,” Myriel repeated. “You don’t exist. You haven’t a care in the world.” As Myriel spoke, Enjolras felt his deaf ear carefully, his expression curious. “No worries, no obligations – certainly no eight thousand dollars to worry about. No Philippe looking for you with the Sheriff—”

Enjolras had mostly been ignoring what Myriel was saying, and cut him off, gesturing impatiently to him. “Say something else into this ear.”

Myriel frowned slightly at him. “Sure. You can hear out of it now.”

If nothing else, this startled Enjolras, who looked both excited and confused. “Well, that’s just the strangest thing. I haven’t been able to hear out that ear since I was a kid. Must have been that jump in the cold water.”

Clearing his throat, Myriel said quietly, “Your nose had stopped bleeding, too, Enjolras.”

Enjolras instantly felt his nose, which, now that Myriel had mentioned it, was no longer sore or bleeding. “Well, what do you know?” he said, amazed. He looked around as if trying to see if anything else was different. “It’s stopped snowing out, hasn’t it? What’s going on here?” He stood scratching his head for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, as soon as our clothes are dry—”

“Our clothes are dry,” Myriel told him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Though Enjolras felt the clothes for verification, he just shrugged as he began pulling them on. “Well, how about that. The stove must’ve been hotter than I thought. Now, come on, get your clothes on, and we’ll stroll up to my car.”

* * *

 

Enjolras and Myriel walked up the street, but as they approached the place where Enjolras’s car had swerved into the tree, Enjolras stopped in his tracks, looking around, confused. “What the matter?” Myriel asked.

Enjolras shook his head, puzzled, and pointed towards the tree. “Well, this is where I left my car, and it isn’t there.”

“You don’t have a car,” Myriel told Enjolras, patiently, but Enjolras shook his head again.

“Well, I did have a car. And it should be right here. I guess somebody moved it.” Enjolras caught sight of the owner of the house to whom the tree belonged strolling down the sidewalk, and he called out, “Hey, where’s my car?” The owner paused, frowning at him, and Enjolras added, “My car. I’m the fellow that owns the car that ran into your tree.” At the owner’s blank look, Enjolras said impatiently, “You know, this tree right here. Here, I ran into it. Cut a big gash into the side of it here—”

He faltered when he saw that the tree trunk was unmarred, and the owner bent down to look at it before peering up at Enjolras suspiciously. “You must mean a different tree. You had me worried. This is one of the oldest trees in Philippesville!”

“Philippesville?” Enjolras repeated blankly. “Don’t you mean Bedford Falls?”

The owner glared at him. “No, I mean Philippesville. Don’t you think I know where I live? What’s the matter with you?”

He stormed away, leaving Enjolras staring at his retreating back, still trying to process everything that was happening. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, slowly. “Either I’m off my nut, or he is. Or, heck, you are!”

The last part he said to Myriel, who had joined him. Myriel just sniffed. “Well, it isn’t me.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Maybe I left my car at Feuilly’s?” he said slowly. “We can walk up there, I suppose. C’mon, Gabriel.”

“It’s Myriel,” Myriel reminded him, but he nonetheless allowed Enjolras to steer him in the direction of Feuilly’s bar.

* * *

 

Enjolras’s car was not at Feuilly’s, so Enjolras decided it would be best if they inquired within. He steered Myriel into the bar, not noticing the differences, the dim and dingy décor, the hard-drinking feel of the place now. Éponine the barmaid was behind the bar, and she looked at them both suspiciously as they sat down at the bar. “Oh, hello, Éponine,” Enjolras said, almost relieved at someone he recognized. “Hey, where’s Feuilly?”

“What are you talking about, phooey?” she asked, frowning at him.

Enjolras laughed slightly. “No, no,  _Feuilly_. Your boss. Where is he?”

Éponine snapped impatiently, “Look, I’m the boss here. Do you want a drink or not?”

Taken aback, Enjolras said quickly, “Ok, all right. Double bourbon, quick, huh?”

She nodded and pulled the bourbon bottle out as she asked Myriel, “What’s yours?”

Myriel was looking around delightedly as if he had never quite seen anyplace like this. “Oh, I was just thinking…It’s been so long since I…”

He trailed off, still looking enraptured, and Éponine rolled her eyes. “Look, Mister, I’m standing here waiting for you to make up your mind.”

“And that’s a good lass,” Myriel said absently, still thinking. “I was thinking of a flaming rum punch, but it’s not nearly cold enough for that. Oh!” He smiled winningly at Éponine. “I’ve got it. Mulled wine, heavy on the cinnamon and light on the cloves. Off with you, my lass, and be lively!”

Éponine’s glare was fierce as she leaned forward. “Hey, look, mister, we serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast. And we don’t need any characters around to give the joint atmosphere. Is that clear? Or do I have to slip you my left for a convincer?” She raised her left fist threateningly, waving it in Myriel’s face.

Myriel looked confusedly at Enjolras, who quickly cleared his throat and said, “Look, Ponine, just give him the same as mine. He’s ok, really.” When Éponine shrugged and turned away, Enjolras muttered to Myriel, “What’s the matter with her? I’ve never seen her act like that before.”

Nodding sagely, Myriel told Enjolras, “Oh, you’ll see a lot of strange things from now on.” He was about to say more, but then the cash register dinged and he brightened considerably. “Oh, someone’s just made it!” he said happily, and at Enjolras’s confused look, told him loudly, “Every time you hear a bell ring, it means that some angel’s just got his wings. I can’t wait til I get mine.”

Éponine slid their drinks across to them, looking suspicious again, and Enjolras quickly told Myriel quietly, “Look, I think maybe you better not mention getting your wings around here.”

“Why? Don’t they believe in angels?” Myriel asked, indignant. “Well, then why should they be surprised when they see one?”

Enjolras glanced at Éponine and told her apologetically, “He, uh, he never grew up. He’s…How old are you anyway, Myriel?”

Myriel frowned, thinking about it for a moment before saying, “Oh, I’m 206 years old.”

Éponine slammed the bottle down on the bar, glaring at both of them. “That does it!” she snapped. “Out you two go, through the door or out the window!”

“Éponine, what’s wrong?” Enjolras asked, holding his hands up defensively.

She frowned at him. “And that’s another thing. Where do you get off calling me Éponine?”

Enjolras just stared at her blankly. “Well, Ép, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“What’s that got to do with it?” she snapped. “I don’t know you from Adam.” She caught sight of someone over Enjolras’s shoulder and called out, “Hey, Rummy, get over here!”

Enjolras turned around, surprised to see another familiar face, though this one was markedly different, for there in front of him stood Mr. Mabeuf, but not as Enjolras had known him. This Mabeuf was a broken down wreck of a man, hat in hand, clearly panhandling for money. Éponine spat at him. “Didn’t I tell you never to come panhandling around here?”

Crossing to him, Enjolras asked Mabeuf urgently, “Mr. Mabeuf! This is Enjolras Lamarque! Don’t you know me?”

Mabeuf shook his head, looking up at Enjolras without recognition. Éponine ordered one of the bouncers, “Throw him out!”

The bouncer seized Mabeuf by the arm and tossed him out of the door. Enjolras looked around wildly. “But…Éponine, isn’t that Mr. Mabeuf, the druggist?”

“You know, that’s another reason for me not to like you,” Éponine told him, her eyes like daggers. “That rumhead spent twenty years in jail for poisoning a kid. If you know him, you must be a jailbird yourself.” She nodded at the bouncer who had just tossed Mabeuf out. “Would you show these two gentlemen to the door?”

Just like that, Enjolras and Myriel both were thrown bodily from the building, landing in the snow out front. Enjolras coughed and rolled over, staring up at the neon sign, which, instead of saying, “Feuilly’s”, instead proclaimed, “Corinthe”. He gaped at the sign and turned to frown at Myriel, who just shook his head sadly. “You see, Enjolras, you weren’t there to stop Mabeuf from putting the poison into the—”

“What do you mean, I wasn’t there?” Enjolras interrupted hotly. “I was there! I remember it like it was yesterday!” Myriel just shook his head again, and Enjolras asked impatiently, “Look, who are you? Why am I seeing all these strange things?”

Still shaking his head, Myriel told him, “I’m your guardian angel. And don’t you understand, Enjolras? It’s because you were not born.”

“But if I wasn’t born, then who am I?” Enjolras asked, beginning to feel a little desperate.

Myriel shrugged. “You’re nobody. You have no identity. There is no Enjolras Lamarque. Go on, search your pockets. You have no papers, no cards, no driver’s license, no insurance policy…”

Enjolras rapidly dug through his pockets, his horror growing as he realized that what Myriel said was true. Desperately, he dug into the breast pocket of his jacket, but Myriel shook his head again. “They’re not there either. Zazie’s petals.”

Though Enjolras stared at him for a long moment, it was clear he still didn’t believe what Myriel was telling him. “You’ve been given a great gift, Enjolras. A chance to see what the world would be like without you.”

“Wait a minute,” Enjolras croaked, rubbing his temples tiredly. “Wait just a minute. This is just some sort of funny dream that I’m having here. I’m going…I’m going home.”

He stood, brushing the snow off of his pants and starting in the rough direction of his house, stopping only when Myriel called after him, “Home? What home?”

Enjolras rounded on Myriel, his eyes blazing with fury. “Shut up! Just – shut up! You’re…you’re crazy! That’s what I think! You’re screwy and you’re driving me screwy, too! I’m seeing things. But now I’m going home, and I’m going to see my husband and my family. Do you understand that? I’m going home alone!”

He strode off hurriedly, ignoring Myriel as he picked himself off the ground and followed after him slowly. Myriel sighed and glanced upward. “How am I doing, Joseph? Oh. Thanks.”

* * *

 

The first thing Enjolras noticed difference was the sign into town. Instead of the cheerful, “Welcome to Bedford Falls”, it now stated, “Philippesville”. He looked at in surprise, but moved past it quickly, intent on getting home. Still, all around him, the entire town had changed. Businesses that had been around for his entire life were gone, replaced by bars, liquor stores, even a burlesque show.

Even as he tried to ignore the changes, he couldn’t help but stop and stare in mingled horror and confusion at where the Building and Loan should have been, where now there was a sleazy looking place, labeled “Patron-Minette.” The police were raiding the place, dragging people outside and locking them into the patrol van.

Enjolras couldn’t help himself. He asked one of the cops on the scene, “Hey, where did the Building and Loan move to?”

The cop frowned at him. “They went out of business years ago!”

Shaking his head, Enjolras glanced around again, surprised to see the police pulling Montparnasse out of the place and shoving him into the back of the squad car. Enjolras thought about saying something but changed his mind, turning just in time to see Bahorel driving by slowly in his cab. “Hey, Bahorel!” he shouted, stumbling over to him. “Bahorel, take me home, would you?”

Bahorel glanced at him uneasily in his rearview mirror. “Where do you live?” he asked brusquely, not wasting any time on pleasantries.

“Doggone it, you know where I live!” Enjolras snapped, impatient. “Three-twenty Sycamore. Now hurry up – Zazie’s sick.”

Though Bahorel nodded and started driving, he still glanced at Enjolras in the rearview mirror, clearly puzzled by Enjolras’s behavior. Enjolras took a shuddering breath and asked slowly, trying not to sound desperate, “Look, straighten me out here. I’ve had some bad liquor or something. Now, you are Bahorel, and you live in Lamarque Field with your wife and kid, right?”

Bahorel glared at him. “You’ve seen my wife?”

“Seen your wife?” Enjolras repeated, exasperated. “I’ve been to your house a hundred times!”

“Look, buddy, what’s the idea?” Bahorel snapped, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I live in a shack in Philippe’s Park and my wife ran away three years ago and took the kid with her. And I ain’t never seen you before in my life.”

Sinking back against the seat, Enjolras shook his head, clueless as to what to make of one of his oldest friends not recognizing him. “Just step on it,” he told him, tired and defeated. “Just get me home.”

Though Bahorel turned his attention back to driving, he glanced over and made a gesture to one of the cops at the scene, indicating that he should follow him. The cop followed Bahorel all the way to three-twenty Sycamore, where they stopped, Bahorel frowning out the window at the house. “ _This_  is where you live?” He asked skeptically.

“Of course,” Enjolras said wearily, but as he turned to look, the words died in his throat. The house was the same as it had been all those years ago when he and Grantaire had thrown rocks at it: ramshackle, broken down, and looking as if no one had lived in it for decades. Enjolras let out a wounded noise and darted out of the car, running towards the house.

Combeferre got out of the cop car and walked around to Bahorel’s window. “What’s up, Bahorel?”

Bahorel shrugged and nodded at the house. “I don’t know, but we better keep an eye on this guy. He’s nuts.”

Inside the house, Enjolras practically collapsed against the wall, yelling hoarsely, over and over, “Grantaire! Jean! Zazie!”

Myriel appeared next to him, shaking his head mournfully. “They’re not here, Enjolras. You don’t have any children.”

Enjolras ignored him, searching through the entire house as if he would find them. When he didn’t, he let out a wordless cry and rushed back outside, sighing with relief when he saw Combeferre standing there. “Ferre! Thank heavens you’re here! What’s happened to this house? Where’s Grantaire?”

Bahorel and Combeferre exchanged uneasy glances, and Combeferre drew his gun carefully. “All right, no fast moves. Put your hands up and come over here.”

Enjolras stared at Combeferre, feeling as if the last shreds of his sanity were being torn away. “Combeferre, Bahorel…what’s the matter with you guys? You were at my wedding! Don’t you remember?”

Shaking his head, Combeferre stepped carefully toward him. “Look, why don’t you be a good kid and we’ll take you in to see a doctor. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Just when he was about to grab Enjolras’s arm, Myriel rushed at him, surprisingly spry for being 206 years old. He pushed Combeferre out of the way and shouted at Enjolras, “Run, Enjolras, run!”

Enjolras backed away, eyes wide with horror, and then ran down the street and away from the entire scene. He felt as if his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He didn’t have any idea what was going on, but he knew none of this was right.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he didn’t even see the person on the sidewalk in front of him until he had run into him, knocking him to the ground. He paused long enough to realize who it was, and he almost sobbed in relief. “Joly!” he cried, pulling the man up and embracing. “Joly, it’s me, Enjolras!”

Joly pulled away from him, frightened. “Enjolras who?” he asked, staring at him with wide eyes. “I don’t…I don’t know you.”

Enjolras stared at him desperately and blurted, “Bossuet! Surely you must remember. We worked together!”

“You know Bossuet?” Joly asked, suddenly suspicious, and when Enjolras nodded, Joly told him coldly, “He’s been in the insane asylum since he lost his business. And if you ask me, that’s where you belong.”

He hurried away from Enjolras, who sank to the ground, feeling as if he had just been punched viciously in the gut. Myriel appeared again, kneeling down next to him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives, and when he isn’t around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”

Enjolras shook his head slowly, trying to use some sort of logic to make sense of all of this. “No. You’ve got me in some sort of spell, or something. Well, I’m going to get out of it. I…the last person I talked to before all of this happened was Feuilly. I’m going to go see him.”

Myriel looked at him carefully. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Of course I know where he lives,” Enjolras snapped. “He lives in Lamarque Field.”

* * *

 

Enjolras looked blankly around what surely should have been Lamarque Field but instead was an ill-kept cemetery. “Are you sure this is Lamarque Field?” Myriel asked.

Shrugging, Enjolras said honestly, “Oh, I’m not sure of anything anymore. All I know is that this should be Lamarque Field. But where are all the houses?”

“You weren’t here to build them,” Myriel reminded him as they walked through the cemetery.

Enjolras just made a low noise in the back of his throat as he drifted aimlessly through the headstones. Then he stopped in his tracks, staring in horror at a weathered tombstone, engraved with the large letter: “MARIUS PONTMERCY.” Letting out a cry, he ran towards it, clearing the snow off the rest of the inscription, which said simply, “IN MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED SON – MARIUS PONTMERCY – 1911-1919.”

He stayed kneeling in front of it, his head bowed, and from behind him, Myriel said quietly, “Your adopted brother, Marius Pontmercy, broke through the ice and was drowned at the age of nine.”

“That’s a lie!” Enjolras snarled, jumping to his feet. “Marius Pontmercy went to war! He got the Congressional Medal of Honor! He saved the lives of every man on that transport!”

Myriel shook his head. “Every man on that transport died. Marius wasn’t there to save them because you weren’t there to save Marius.” Enjolras shook his head as well, eyes wide, and Myriel told him, “You see, Enjolras, you really had a wonderful life. All you wanted was to change things. Can’t you see that you did exactly that? Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?”

Enjolras stared at Myriel with unseeing eyes, his hand closing on the cold stone of Marius’s headstone. “Myriel,” he said softly, in a dead sort of voice. “Myriel, where’s Grantaire?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Myriel shook his head. “Oh, well, I can’t—”

“No,” Enjolras said, his voice growing stronger. “No, I don’t know how you know these things, but you have to tell me, where is he?”

When Myriel still did not answer, Enjolras grabbed him by the collar, shaking him. “Please, please, Myriel,” he begged, almost sobbing. “If you know where he is, tell me where my husband is. Please, tell me where he is!”

“You aren’t going to like it, Enjolras,” Myriel told him. “He’s…” Enjolras shook him once more and Myriel blurted out, “He died!”

Enjolras stared at Myriel. He didn’t think anything had hit him quite like this. “What?” he asked, softly, and Myriel shook his head sadly.

“See for yourself. Two rows down, on the left.”

As if in a daze, Enjolras slowly crossed through the cemetery, and when he saw the headstone with Grantaire’s name and a date the same year as their wedding engraved on it, he let out a sob, falling once again to his knees. “How?” he gasped, reaching out to touch the cold letters.

Myriel’s voice was full of sympathy as he told him, “You changed Grantaire’s life more than anyone’s. He never went to college; he stayed here and he drank more and more. Courfeyrac didn’t pursue him at all – no one pursued him. He only had his drink, and in the end, the drink was what killed him. He died alone, never knowing love.”

That was the final straw; Enjolras broke down weeping, clutching at Grantaire’s headstone in a vain attempt to keep himself upright as he sobbed brokenly. “No,” he sobbed, “No, no, not Grantaire, God, not Grantaire.”

“Don’t you see, Enjolras?” Myriel asked quietly. “All you ever wanted was to change the world. And you’ve done that in spades. It may not be big or glamorous, but you’ve changed your entire world. What could possibly be more wonderful than that?”

Enjolras just shook his head and stood, looking around wildly, completely lost without the only remaining thing that had kept him tethered to his life. “No!” he cried. “No, it can’t end like this! I can’t…I can’t…”

He staggered away from Grantaire’s headstone, feeling like he was going to be sick, and right when he got to the edge of the cemetery, he was met by Combeferre in his squad car. “Hey, it’s you! Stop right there!”

Enjolras began running wildly away, his heart completely broken, crying and calling out for both Myriel and Grantaire, unsure which he needed more, unsure which would help him more. H knew only one thing for sure: he had to fix this. He had to make all of this right. He just didn’t have any idea how.


	11. Chapter 11

Enjolras didn’t know how he managed to outrun Combeferre; it probably had a lot to do with completely ignoring roads and cutting through people’s yards. He ran as if he could somehow outrun every memory of what he had just seen, as if by running fast enough he would somehow find everything had returned to normal.

He ran all the way back to the bridge where he had contemplated throwing himself into the river below, and when he arrived, he clutched the rail of the bridge as if it was his only lifeline. “Myriel!” he sobbed, crying as hard as he had at Grantaire’s headstone. “Myriel, help me, please! Take me back. Take me back! I don’t care what happens to me. Just please, help me! Please! I want to live again!”

Falling to his knees, he continued to clutch the railing, even as he sobbed brokenly, “Take me back to Grantaire, to my kids. I want to live again! I want to live again. Please, please let me live again.”

He continued to sob wordlessly, but all around him, the vicious wind died down, replaced by a gentle snow that began to fall all around him. The squad car pulled up behind him, and Combeferre jumped out, running towards him and shouting, “Enjolras, Enjolras! Is everything all right?”

Enjolras shrank away from him, clearly expecting Combeferre to try and arrest him again, but instead, Combeferre knelt down next to him, looking concerned. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

Shaking his head, Enjolras put his fists up defensively. “Just get out of here, Combeferre, or I’ll hit you! Go on, get out!”

Combeferre stared at him, confused. “What in the heck are you yelling about, Enjolras?”

“Don’t you—” Enjolras started hotly, then broke off, realizing what Combeferre had just said. “Enjolras?” he breathed, barely daring to believe, searching Combeferre’s face for a hint of recognition. “Ferre, do you…do you know me?”

Still staring at him, Combeferre nodded slowly, concern beginning to creep into his expression. “Know you? Are you kidding me? I’ve been all over town trying to find you! I saw your car plowed into that tree back there, and I thought…” He reached out to gently wipe something off of Enjolras’s face. “Hey, look, your nose is bleeding. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Enjolras quickly reached up to wipe his nose, looking at the smear of red against his fingers as if it was the best thing he had ever seen in his life. He laughed out loud before telling Combeferre joyously, “My nose is bleeding! My nose is—” He paused, reaching almost desperately into his pocket, pulling out the crushed flower petals. “Zazie’s petals! Zazie’s…they’re here! They’re here! Well what do you know about that?!” Laughing wildly, he embraced Combeferre, whose eyes widened. “Merry Christmas, Combeferre!”

He stood, brushing the snow off of himself, laughing loudly as he brushed snow off of Combeferre’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas!” he shouted again, beginning to run back towards town, his smile unbearably wide. “Grantaire! Grantaire!”

His run was just as fast as his run from the cemetery, but there was something joyful in his step now. He saw his wrecked car right where he had left it and let out a triumphant yell, darting over to pat it thankfully on the hood before dashing onwards. When he saw the “Welcome to Bedford Falls” sign, he let out another happy yell, and threw his arms open wide at the sight. “Hello, Bedford Falls!”

The town was back to normal, and he sped up as he ran, calling to every passerby on the streets, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”

Though people shot him odd glances, they all responded in the same way, with smiles and returned cheerful, “Merry Christmas, Enjolras!”

Enjolras could not get over how excited he was to see everything back in place. “Merry Christmas, movie house!” he called as he ran past it, and, “Merry Christmas, emporium!” When he got to the Building and Loan, he stopped and beamed up at the rickety building. “Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!”

He continued on towards home, pausing once more at the window to Mr. Philippe’s office, and so full of excitement was he that he stopped and pounded on the window, shouting, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Philippe!”

Mr. Philippe frowned at him, his lip curling when he saw who it was. “Happy New Year to you – in jail! Go on home. They’re waiting for you!”

Laughing delightedly, Enjolras sprinted the rest of the way home, and as soon as he got through the door, he ignored the crowd of people waiting for him anxiously, instead looking wildly around the room and shouting, “Grantaire, where’s Grantaire?”

He might have gone tearing through the house, except for the bank examiner clearing his throat and tapping Enjolras on the shoulder. “Mr. Lamarque,” he said, his tone officious. “Mr. Lamarque, there’s a deficit.”

Enjolras turned and beamed at him. “Oh, I know,” he said cheerfully, reaching out and shaking the bank examiner’s hand. “Eight thousand dollars.”

The sheriff cleared his throat as well, and managed to look remorseful as he told Enjolras, “Look, Enjolras, I’ve got a little paper here…”

“I’ll bet it’s a warrant for my arrest,” Enjolras said happily, thrilled that everything was back to normal, no matter if normal led to his arrest, because it meant…well, it meant that Grantaire was alive, and Marius, and Zazie and Jean, and everything was right in the world again. “Isn’t it wonderful? Merry Christmas!”

From the other side of the room, the photographer for the paper took a picture, the flash bulb flashing through the room, and at the sight, Enjolras shook his head, turning around again. “Grantaire!” he shouted, running through to the kitchen and looking around. “Oh, look at this wonderful drafty house! Grantaire!”

He dashed back into the living room, where everyone was still staring at him as if trying to figure out his excitement. “Has anyone seen my husband?”

At the top of the stairs, Jean and Zazie let out excited yells. “Daddy!” Jean yelled, bolting down the stairs and throwing himself into Enjolras’s arms. “Merry Christmas, Daddy!”

Enjolras held him close, pressing multiple kisses into Jean’s hair, setting him down only to pick Zazie up and hold her close, kissing her as well. “Zazie! How do you feel?”

“Not a smitch of a temperature,” Jean told him seriously. “And Dad went looking for you with Bossuet.”

Pulling Jean close with the arm not holding Zazie, Enjolras bent and kissed his forehead. He was about to say something more, but then the door opened and Enjolras whirled around, freezing in place as he saw Grantaire standing there, staring at him with his wide blue eyes and his crooked smile and his dark curls full of snow. Enjolras set Zazie down carefully before rushing to Grantaire, pulling him into his arms and kissing him as he had never kissed him before, holding on to him desperately, as he might never let him go again. “Grantaire,” he breathed, leaning back just far enough to rest his forehead against Grantaire’s. “Oh God, you’re real. You’re real and you’re here. I love you, Grantaire, I love you so much.”

Grantaire laughed breathlessly, tangling his fingers in Enjolras’s curls. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I was…I was so worried about you.”

“You have no idea what happened to me,” Enjolras told him, honestly, kissing him again. “No idea, but it’s all ok now, I promise. It’s ok.”

Laughing again, Grantaire pulled away, his smile so wide it looked almost painful. “Oh, no, Enjolras,  _you_  don’t know what’s happened! Come on, come on.” He laced his fingers with Enjolras’s and pulled him towards the front door, throwing it open and beaming as he wrapped his arm around Enjolras’s waist.

Enjolras stared outside in shock, his mouth falling open at the scene before him. A crowd of at least twenty of his friends and neighbors were on the way in, led by Bossuet, who was grinning and laughing, hand in hand with Joly. “It’s a miracle,” Grantaire told him, pulling him away from the door so that they wouldn’t get trampled by people as they stormed inside. “Come on, let’s go stand over by the tree. It’s a miracle, Enj. Look!”

He reached up to kiss Enjolras again, then turned to the crowd streaming through the door. “Come on in, Bossuet, everybody! Come inside!”

The crowd of people seemed even bigger inside, and Zazie ran over to Enjolras, who picked her up to keep her from being trampled. Bossuet and Joly dragged a table over in front of Enjolras, and then Bossuet overturned the basket he had been carrying. Enjolras stared in shock as money poured out of the basket, piling on the table and overflowing to the ground. “What?” he croaked, looking at Bossuet. “How?”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Bossuet said, still grinning fiendishly.

He stepped away from the table, but his place was soon taken by the other townspeople, who greeted Enjolras with smiles and cheerful words. As each person came forward, they added to the pile of money. From their pockets, from shoe boxes, from coffee pots, money was added onto the table. It was small currency, more pennies, dimes, quarters and dollar bills than anything, but there was a lot of it. More and more people kept coming forward, just as more and more people kept pouring into the house, pushing forward to give their money.

Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’s hand, smiling at the look on his face. Enjolras was completely overcome, and, undoubtedly for the first time in his life, completely speechless. Tears began to course down his face at the sight of so many of his friends and neighbors, all adding money to the table.

“Grantaire did it, Enjolras!” Bossuet told him, crying with excitement as well. “He did it! He told people you were in trouble and they scattered all over town collecting money. They didn’t ask any questions, just said, ‘If Enjolras is in trouble, count on me.’ I’ve never seen anything like it.”

From the other side of the table, Bahorel was trying to keep everyone in an orderly line so that they didn’t all descend on the table at once. “The line forms on the right!” he called, but no one was paying any attention, too eager to get to Enjolras.

Feuilly pushed through the crowd, dumping a mixing bowl filled with money onto the table and reaching out to shake Enjolras’s hand. “I busted open the juke-box, Enjolras. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Enjolras repeated, a little dazed at the people still trying to push through the front door. He looked over at Grantaire, who grinned up at him. “You did all this?” he asked quietly. “You did all this for me?” When Grantaire just nodded, he bent over and kissed him.

Mabeuf came, and Mrs. Lamarque, and even Madame Hucheloup, and everyone else in town, it seemed. Even Montparnasse came forward, and Enjolras blinked in surprise at seeing him. “I’m not going to go,” Montparnasse told him, in a low voice, setting the money Enjolras had given him on the pile. “I changed my mind.”

More and more people came forward, many telling Enjolras the same things: “I wouldn’t have a roof over my head if it weren’t for you, Enjolras”; “You helped me when no one else would”; “Consider this my way of saying thank you.”

Through it all, he kept mostly silent, holding Grantaire’s hand tightly and clutching Zazie to him. Then Bahorel yelled, “Wait a minute, everyone! I’ve got a telegram here. Quiet, everybody, quiet. It’s from London.” The crowd quieted down, and Bahorel turned to face Enjolras, reading from the telegram, “Mr. Mabeuf cables you need cash. Stop. My office instructed to advance you up to twenty-five thousand dollars. Stop. Hee-haw and Merry Christmas. Courfeyrac.”

The crowd broke into cheers and applause and Bahorel dropped the telegram on top of the pile, throwing his arm around Bossuet and laughing loudly. “Hey, Feuilly, how about some wine?” Grantaire called, and Feuilly and a few others disappeared into the kitchen.

Jean slipped away from his parents and sat down at the piano, beginning to play “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, and the crowd joined in, singing along joyously. More people kept coming in, and Enjolras laughed and cried as the bank examiner pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table. The sheriff grinned a little sheepishly at Enjolras and tore the warrant into small pieces.

Suddenly, a voice called out, “Hello, Enj, how are you?”, and Enjolras looked up, shocked to see Marius standing there in his full Navy uniform, accompanied by Combeferre. “Grantaire, looks like I got here too late.”

“I got him from the airport as quickly as I could,” Combeferre told Grantaire earnestly. “The fool flew all the way up here in a blizzard!”

Mrs. Lamarque called, “But Marius, what about your banquet in Washington?”

“Oh, I left right in the middle of it as soon as I got Grantaire’s telegram,” Marius told her, still grinning. He accepted a glass of wine from Feuilly and raised it into the air, shouting over the chattering of the crowd, “A toast! To my big brother, Enjolras Lamarque, the richest man in town!”

The crowd once again broke into cheers and applause, and Enjolras blushed and glanced down. He was surprised to see, in addition to the money, a battered novel titled  _Les Misérables_  sitting on the table, and he reached down and opened it, reading the inscription writing in the front cover: “Dear Enjolras, Remember: no man is a failure who has friends. Thanks for the wings. Love, Myriel.”

Grantaire glanced at the book curiously. “What’s that?”

“A Christmas present from a very dear friend of mine,” Enjolras told him simply.

As if fate decreed it, the wind coming in from the front door caused a little silver bell on the Christmas tree to swing and let out a silvery tinkle. Zazie pointed to it, telling Enjolras, “Look, Daddy! Teacher says that every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.”

Enjolras just laughed and kissed her forehead. “That’s right, that’s absolutely right,” he said, his voice cracking from emotion, and he glanced upward toward the ceiling and winked. “Attaboy, Myriel. Attaboy.”

Jean had finished with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and moved into “Auld Lang Syne”, and the crowd was once again singing along to the song. Enjolras kissed Grantaire again, feeling as if his heart might burst from joy as he glanced around the crowded room. He had done it. He had changed the world. He just wished that he had been able to realize it before, how many lives he had touched and changed and saved.

And at the moment, holding on to his daughter and his husband, he really was the richest man in town: richest in love, which was the only thing that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read, commented, kudos'd, etc. _It's A Wonderful Life_ is a movie that has immense personal meaning to me, and it's been wonderful to be able to take the characters I love so much and put them in that setting, and thank you for indulging me in doing so.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!!


End file.
